


All the Devils are Here

by sentinel_of_the_starry_sky



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age - Various Authors, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Falling In Love, Long, Multi, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Star-crossed, bare with me, hope you enjoy!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-31
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-03-11 20:57:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 50,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13532400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sentinel_of_the_starry_sky/pseuds/sentinel_of_the_starry_sky
Summary: "You're angry, little one. That's good. We can use it."Knowing little of the world outside her own Dalish Clan, a young outcast seeks escape from her kin's disdain. Yet, this escape comes in a form she could never have imagined. War ravages the sullen earth, terror reigns in the sky and gods walk amongst men. Navigating an uncharted path and alone in the world, Larkin Lavellan seeks to aid the fledgling Inquisition’s quest to push back the forces of chaos and take back Thedas.





	1. Before

_‘Red sky at night, shepherd’s delight. Red sky at morning, shepherd’s warning.’_

Sleep recedes regretfully as the blood-red dawn seeps through the fluttering tent flap. A stray snowflake floats in on the crisp mountain breeze, glinting in the light, before settling on the stirring pile of blankets. It melts as it touches the wool, just as a tangled mess of dark red hair emerges. The hint of amber in her brown eyes glinting like flame in the light and blinking furiously, the young elf, Larkin, tugs herself free from the swathes of cloth. Her fingers fumble across the tent floor, searching for her water canister. Upon finding it, in her haste to open it, the cap comes loose too quickly and she spills much of it across her front and across her bedding.

“Fuck.” She gulps down what is left, before pulling on her well-worn boots, wrapping herself in the least sodden of her blankets and pushing through the tent-flap into the cold. Despite being precariously perched on the mountainside, the campsite is almost entirely still, even the falcons sleep soundly in their cages. It is only the fire’s dying embers shifting in the breeze that disturbs the quiet. Surprising, as Larkin is never the first up. The snow crunches under foot as she approaches the hearth and kneels to stoke the flames, to no avail. Impatient, Larkin rubs her hands together before cupping them and whispering unintelligibly. A purple spark of lightning licks her fingertips, and taking a log from the pile she traces her fingertips across the grooves of the wood. She sets it down on the hearth smoking. As she scrapes snow into a pot, the log bursts into flame, sending tendrils of smoke into the sky.

“You’re up early.” Larkin turns to see her brother, Baewen, her mirrored self, approaching. A faint trace of stubble lines his jaw, running in line with the pale marks of his Vallaslin. His hair is darker, his stature broader than his twin’s. The same dark skin, the same eyes though, that same flickering amber gaze. Lark can spot the glint of armour, half-hidden beneath his cloak. He expects to fight today, she notes. He crouches in the snow beside his sister, his shoulder brushing against hers, allowing the heat of the flames to soak into his outstretched fingers.

“I was thirsty,” Lark mutters, holding up the pot of melting snow. “I would’ve thought you’d have been up by now.” She draws the blanket more tightly around her, shifting her weight onto her heels.

“Thought I’d let Ellana sleep in.” Lark curls her lip at the thought of her brother’s lover while Baewen pauses, contemplating. He closes his eyes, tilting his face to the sky, allowing the dawn to drape over him before whispering through misted breath and a hint of chattering teeth, “it’s going to be a long few months.”  


“You really think the Conclave will last that long?”

“No. The Conclave will fail within a matter of days. But our job doesn’t end when it does, our job ends when the war ends.”

Lark hesitates. “And if the war never ends?”

“All wars end eventually, it’s in their nature.” He pauses, drawing in a heavy breath. “A soldier will grow tired of hurling himself into the jaws of death only to be spat back out, while he watches his comrades be crushed down into its gullet. And when the bread, water, wool and steel run out and he has nothing to fill his belly or cover his back then he will have no reason to fight, and he’ll go home, broken. The shemlen lords too, always grow tired of their toy armies and their petty conflicts, they will let the soldier go, and think little of him. They will put the chessboard back in its box and find another game to fill their time and think little of the chaos left in their wake.”

Images flash through Lark’s mind, from the stories she had heard the Clan’s hunters whisper amongst themselves, of the tales slipping out of the Hinterlands. Lines of shadow-helmed soldiers bearing the seal of the flaming sword. Enchanter’s robes caught in an armoured fist. Torn earth. Torn flesh. Villages on fire. The blue hum of lyrium. Bodies strewn across a bloodied field, each encased in ice…

“But this isn’t an ‘ordinary’ war…”

“It may not seem like it, but trust me, Lark, it is. This war is no different to any that came before and any that will come after.”

They fall into an uncomfortable silence while the wind begins to pick up and the sun continues to spill over the horizon. The faint smell of pine surrounds them, drifting up from the forested valley below. Lark takes a large swig from the pot, the snow now melted and welcomingly warm, before pouring what’s left messily into her water canister. Baewen sets about making breakfast.

Ellana emerges from her tent soon-after, her pale-blonde hair swept back off her face, armour fastened, grey eyes alert and accusing. Tall and with a hint of muscle in her long limbs, her fingers crackling with magical energy, she oozes power.

“I told you to wake me before dawn.” She stands over Baewen as he crouches in the snow sorting through supplies. Her hands rest on her narrow hips as he looks up at her and flashes her an innocent smile. “You follow my orders, Baewen, my orders and mine alone. Do I make myself clear?”

She’s overcompensating, Lark notes.

His smile doesn’t drop as he makes a great effort of turning and kneeling at her feet. “Yes ma’am. Won’t happen again.” He winks. Lark can see the older elf stifling a smile in the face of Baewen’s charm. It is known among most of the women and some of the men of Clan Lavellan, that Baewen’s smiles are hard to resist. But it is Ellana to whom they are most often directed, much to the mage’s pleasure. Lark can spot the satisfaction in Ellana’s eyes as she pulls Baewen to his feet and holds him there with a single fist. “It better not,” she warns. A hint of flame passes through her touch, the slight burst of heat causing him to flinch. She smirks and pushes him back into the snow. Baewen’s smiles never drops.

Lark turns away from their display, gritting her teeth.

“How long before we can set out?” Ellana questions. Having taken out her staff, she swings it through the motions of battle, her movement as smooth as silk. Heat radiates from her, melting the snow at her feet revealing the rock beneath.

“I’d say we can eat, pack and be ready to move within the hour,” Bae replies, slicing the last of the salted meat and throwing it on the skillet. “We could be in Haven by noon.”  
Ellana does not stop swinging as she replies, “Good.” She swings her staff in a perfect arch overhead as she rotates on her left foot. Ellana’s grace is something to behold, though Lark rarely cares to admit it. She repeats her dance twice more before slamming her staff into the ground, cracking the rock beneath.

Show off.

As if sensing her presence in Lark’s thoughts, she fixes the younger elf with her cold stare. Ellana holds little affection for her lover’s petulant twin.  
“Right then, let’s go.”

…

The Pilgrim’s Trail that leads to the Temple of Sacred Ashes is narrow and rocky, an old road once used for Chantry scholars who made the Summer Pilgrimage, long since abandoned. Lark finds herself unsteady underfoot on the uneven terrain. The main road would have made an easier climb, she knows, but their small company would surely have been noticed. Three armed elves amongst Andraste’s Faithful would make quite the sight, and with two mages in their number, perhaps even stoked the ire of a passing Templar. There is enough fear and uncertainty in the air as it is, Ellana had warned, we would be dead before we even reached Haven. Consequently, it has been a long week in the Frostback Mountains, and despite the glimmer of the late summer sun over the jagged peaks, Lark can feel the bitter cold wind gnawing through her bones.

She trails a little behind the others. Lark glances back over her shoulder, catching sight of a faint plume of smoke curling into the sky, the last remnants of their camp fire far behind. Baewen’s falcons circle above them, keeping watch. They glide gracefully through the air, dipping and diving, the sun illuminating their dark wings. When she was small, Lark would follow those birds to the highest branches of the tallest trees, imagining that as she climbed she would grow beautiful wings like theirs and be able to fly beside them, high above the dark forests of the Free Marches where the Lavellan Clan’s aravels trekked. She wished she was with them now.

When Keeper Deshanna had come to her with her plan, Lark asked why had she been chosen, out of all the others who could have gone in her stead. Her magic was powerful, any of the Lavellan would freely admit this. Yet she was not even of age, her vallaslin only faint upon her face, and her experience of warfare was limited only to her brawling with other clan members, with those foolish enough to taunt her. By comparison, her grandmother favoured both Ellana and Baewen to succeed her when the time came and their presence on this escapade was part of their preparation, to learn more of an increasingly violent world beyond their woods.

But Lark was herself a mystery here. Ellana clearly didn’t want her company and the clan’s First did little to hide her disdain of her presence. And the Keeper had given no answers to her questions, so while many of the hunters objected, none could persuade her otherwise. For better or worse, Lark was here upon the mountainside, longing to be anywhere else. She feels herself reach for her hilt, tucked tightly into her belt, a crude little thing she had fashioned out of iron all those years ago. She traces her thumb over the simple engraved pommel itching to draw it, to swing through the motions of battle. But before she can, she feels the ice beneath her foot give out. She flails forwards, scraping the length of her forearms as she braces her fall. A hiss of pain escapes her clenched teeth, as she hits rock. In a matter of seconds, Baewen is at her side.

“Are you alright?” His grip is firm at her elbow, pulling her to her feet.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just lost my footing.”

“Try not to do that when we get to Haven. We didn’t come all this way for you to ruin us.” Ellana’s smirk is blatant as Lark bites back a curse. The older elf continues forward, unfazed. Baewen remains at her side, one hand cupping her chin.

“You sure you’re alright, little bird?” The name surprises her, it has been a long time since he has called her that. Not least since they had left the Free Marches, nearly a month ago. Perhaps even longer, she realises. When had she last heard it, she wonders. Not for a number of years, not since when they were young and still both the same size, and when she was still able to tease him for his overly large ears. The affection in the childhood nickname warms her.

“I promise I’m good, Bae.” The words felt thick in her mouth, as if she were lying. She wants the words to be true, though. “I’ll fix myself up and then catch up.” Baewen nods, but before he turns away, draws her into a long hug.

“We’re going to be fine,” he whispers under his breath, “I promise.” She hugs him tighter, burying her face in his woollen cloak, smelling the last hint of the forest on him. Up here, even the scent of the valley’s pine was stifled by the cold, carried away on the harsh wind. She is afraid to let him go, it is as if he will disappear into the breeze if she loosens her grip. He pulls away first and steps back. “Haven is just over that last ridge,” he says, pointing to the treeline up ahead. “If you squint, you can almost see the lake.” Lark tries, but can only see the trees.

“I’ll catch up,” she repeats. Baewen nods, and then moves on. He marches quickly forward, hastening to catch up with Ellana and with his bow strapped to his back, he is the perfect image of an elven hunter. He is ready for a fight.

The magic she uses to heal her arms is simple but time consuming. Healing was never one of her strengths, but she can treat basic cuts and bruises well enough. A warm glow seeps through her limbs as she recites the old Dalish incantation, leaving a pleasant tingling sensation in its wake. The blood dissipates, and the cuts heal over leaving only a soft redness. All that’s left is a wounded ego.

Lark casts one last glance down into the valley, wondering if she turned back – if she ran – would she be missed, would anyone care? But then she remembers her brother’s solemn words, remembers the hunters’ stories and she moves on, trudging sombrely through the snow. She does not look back again.


	2. The Seeker and the Apostate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Seeker and the Apostate consider the Prisoner.

When she had been told the Divine’s murderer had been found, Cassandra had imagined that she was to be brought to a monster, to some heinous demon that had crawled out from the depths of the Fade. Instead, she found a child in its place. The elf was young, too young to be as broken as she looked. Bruises lined every inch of her dark skin, the flesh of her left arm was torn from shoulder to wrist, her young face bloodied, her dark red hair matted, tangled and spilling out across the mattress. The healers had stripped her of her armour, it lay discarded across the floor, dented and beaten beyond repair. Mercenary garb, Cassandra noted. In spite of all this, they had told her the elf was alive, her heart beating on weakly and her breath shallow, but still just about alive. 

The Chantry soldiers had found her amongst the smoking rubble, and the story they told had frightened the Seeker, so much so that she had waited two days before coming here. A small hope had taken hold in her heart, that maybe the girl might perish from her wounds, or that the townsfolk would reach her first, so she would have not to face her. She had been told three men had tried to break into the cabin in which the girl slept, brandishing clubs and calling for her death, for justice for the Divine. But they had been stopped and Cassandra had finally come, and she stood considering the girl, brow furrowed and eyes dark. 

The soldiers had said that they had seen the little elf walk out of the Fade, at the heart of the crater where the Temple once stood. She had wielded a flaming sword, they insisted and, a figure shrouded in light had stood behind her, golden as the sun. A woman, they cried. Andraste, some had whispered. And the whisper was growing louder by the hour.

And then there was the Mark. In the palm of the elf’s left hand, the pulsating green light shrouded the room in an unmistakable magical aura. Cassandra felt her teeth on edge, felt a twitch in her limbs as she watched her, unsure how to proceed. While she stood silently, the apostate sat quietly in the corner of the room, his face lit in the half-light of the lanterns dotted around the cabin and reflecting a little of the Mark’s green glow.

He was an elf, long and lean like others of his kind, though while he bore no marks of the Dalish, he was clearly not a city elf either, leaving Cassandra curious of his origin. Solas, as he called himself, had emerged from the wilderness several days ago, and with his clothes monastic in style and with his shaved head Cassandra had initially feared the elf was some stray cultist, come to sing of the doom in the sky. Yet when the rifts began to appear throughout the valley, he had volunteered his aid and expertise in dealing with them, doing all he could to help prevent further disaster. And when the little elf had emerged from the Fade, he had been the one to act. Solas had sat with her, examining and stifling the Mark’s power as it appeared to grow and fester, and had helped the healers with her recovery. Cassandra had not thought to refuse and his help had been key in this chaos. 

Solas didn’t look up as Cassandra stood there, in fact from where she stood it looked as though he were asleep. But as soon as she took a step to closer to the bed, he spoke.

“Good evening, Seeker.” Cassandra couldn’t place his accent but the lilt in his voice suggested he was not from Ferelden or Orlais. Perhaps a lone wanderer from the Dales, fleeing the Empress’ growing war? If she ever found a moment of peace, she would ask Lelianna to look into him. 

“How is the girl?”

“Her Mark continues to grow, just as the Breach expands in the sky. I imagine she is in considerable pain because of it.” He got up from his seat and approached the bed, kneeling down to pour some water through the elf’s bloodied lips. “She cannot survive much longer like this, she must wake soon.” As if to illustrate his point, the Mark sputtered with magical energy and the girl was racked with spasms, her face contorted in agony. Cassandra jumped backwards as Solas reached to steady the girl. Passing a hand over her face, he muttered a few words under his breath, his tone soothing. After a moment she lay still again, calmed. “I am dampening the Mark’s power as much as I can, but this force is strong. I may not be able to stop it spreading.” 

Cassandra had assumed as much. As she watched the girl, her lingering desire for the elf to perish flared in her heart. It would be simpler this way, a small voice inside her crooned, the Divine’s murderer dead and justice done. But she knew this was wrong, the guilt for even thinking that began to gnaw at her. There were so many questions to be asked, so many answers to be sought. She was certain the elf held the key to stopping this. 

A knock at the cabin door interrupted her thoughts. Solas called for the door to be opened, and a young man entered carrying a tray of food. Cassandra thought that she recognised him, probably another resident of Haven volunteering his help in the midst of the crisis. His dark hair fell to his shoulders and his grey eyes were built into a familiar round face. Yes, she was certain she knew him.

“Food for the prisoner, ma’am.” The tray was simple, laden with bread, a small block of cheese, and water. Simple village fodder.

“Place it on the desk.” The young man did as he was instructed, glancing at the bed as he did so. As he moved, Cassandra noticed the apostate fixing her with his dark gaze. He looked between her and the man. Cassandra understood quickly, and when she inspected the man’s garb she thought she saw the glint of iron at his belt.

“Who ordered you to bring this to the prisoner?” 

He paused slightly before answering, “Sister Nightingale, ma’am.” His hands betrayed a slight shake at his sides. Solas remained seated, but his hand rested lightly on the staff at his side, tracing his fingers along the wooden grooves, ready. 

“I thought Lelianna knew the elf could not eat?” Cassandra asked. The man did not answer nor did he move to leave, and his eyes were narrowing, as his gaze shifted between the Seeker and the bed. “What is your name, young man?”

“Abel, ma’am.” A tinge of sweat glimmered at his temple.

“Consider your next move carefully, Abel.” As she said his name, the man lunged at the girl, ripping a knife from his belt. Before the knife could meet flesh however, Solas wrenched his staff upwards and threw up a barrier to meet the blow and Cassandra tackled him to the floor, tugging his arms behind his back. The man was screaming as he fell.

“MURDERER! SHE KILLED HER, SHE KILLED THE DIVINE!”

The screaming had alerted Chantry soldiers, who burst through the door to meet the commotion. They tore Abel away from the Seeker and dragged him into the snow as he continued to scream, forcing him to the ground. A crowd has gathered at the sound, consisting largely of the people of Haven as well as some stray Chantry clerics – those who had arrived in the aftermath of the explosion – curious to see what further chaos was bred in the wake of the temple’s destruction. Each stood in the shadow of the Breach, the green light of which crackled overhead. The Seeker noticed children numbered amongst them, eyes wide and mouths agape, peeking out from behind their mothers’ skirts or clasped to their fathers’ hands. They were all afraid.

Cassandra stood over the man, torn between contempt and pity for him. He was far from the only one to share this sentiment. His eyes were alight with fury, his face twisted in anger. Every fibre of his being wanted the girl dead. As far as Cassandra could tell, everyone in Haven wanted her dead. Perhaps, every Andrastian in Thedas wanted her dead.

“What should we do with him, Seeker?” one of the soldiers asked. Cassandra was unsure. She had found herself the figure to whom others deferred judgement given both she and Lelianna were now the most senior figures left alive. The position was not a novelty, but in the wake of so much destruction, she found herself plagued with doubt. 

“Send him back to his family,” she ordered, “there has been enough death already here.”

The soldiers dragged the man off towards the south of the village, his screams eventually dying in the wind, hidden by the rising snows and booms of the Breach overhead. Cassandra looked away from the crowd and back to the cabin, to find Solas leaning against the frame of the doorway, his brow furrowed.

“That makes four attempts on her life within the past three days,” he noted, as Cassandra pushed past him. She sank into the chair in which he had been sitting, and felt her head rest in her hands.

“She can’t stay here. This cabin is too vulnerable and I will not have her die before we can interrogate her.” The Seeker paused, contemplating. There was limited space in the village to house her, and she imagined the villagers would not be willing to give up their homes for a heretic. Besides, the place was full to the brim of people. She and Lelianna had begun preparations for the next phase of their plan, and the Chantry had responded as she had imagined. But then a thought struck her. “We should move her to the Chantry, she will be better guarded in a cell there.” The apostate nodded, and leaned back against the desk, contemplating. 

Cassandra was unsure whether or not to trust the apostate, and she could see that mistrust reflected in his own gaze. His help in this chaos was unparalleled, but every instinct told her his continued presence was a threat. The twitch in her limbs remained as she considered him for a moment, before leaving to fetch soldiers to carry the girl to the Chantry.

They carried her quickly and quietly, being careful to move onlookers back. Many spat as the prisoner passed, many more yelled profanity and slurs. She was an elf after all, a simple target. The girl was eventually placed in a large, dimly lit cell, cuffed with heavy fetters and, after Solas’ suggestion, draped in blankets to keep away the cold. The apostate remained at her side, passing his hand over her face and chanting healing spells under his breath. The Mark continued to pulsate with light, and the Seeker could tell it unnerved the soldiers she had stationed in the cell beside her. 

She considered the scene for a while, wondering how it had come to this. Then she left to find Lelianna. There was much left to discuss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any comments, tips or suggestions are appreciated as I am trying to practice and improve my writing style.


	3. First Impressions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where introductions are made, weaponry is appreciated and a plan goes wrong.

Varric had never seen the Frostback Mountains before but he had imagined them to possess a bleak beauty of sorts, the beauty that he caught at a glance emanating from every corner of the horizon. The jagged peaks that were carved into the summer sky were draped in a fine down of silvery snow, as if the Maker had torn open a fine pillow in the sky and had let the feathers drift down to cover the earth below. A setting out of a fairy tale, he had thought. He imagined if he walked through the mountains for long enough that he may come upon a dragon’s cave heaving with plundered gold or a lost princess’ tower, with a golden plait draping from the highest window. Maybe a book or two could have been set here, he mused, heroes always needed a majestic backdrop. It was a shame, then that this beauty was somewhat ruined by the demons pouring from the Breach, letting out a cacophony of screams and wails as they tumbled to earth and ripped open all that stood in their path. Indeed, this ugly scar in the sky didn’t half ruin the view.

Varric had also never seen anyone fight the way the little red-haired elf did as she burst onto the battlefield. She was a mage, that much he could tell, but she fought with a sword in hand. A sword – Varric noted – forged not of steel or iron but of what appeared to be magic. No, simply sheer will. It glowed golden like the sun, and she herself was practically aflame as she launched herself at the demons that poured out of the rift they had come upon, hacking and slashing at everything in her path. There was something primal in the way she fought, as if it were an untapped proclivity for violence finally being unleashed.

Rage incarnate.

It wasn’t graceful by any means; her swings were short, jagged and lacked the finesse of a soldier’s training but it was certainly effective. He had little time to consider the new arrival however as a demon stalked towards him, claws sharpened and raised towards him. Gnarled and scaled, the beast heaved its bloated frame forwards, as hissing escaped its slack-jawed maw.

Thankfully, slipping a new bolt into ‘Bianca’ and firing straight had become instinctual to the dwarf, enough that he was swift and precise with every aim. The creature fell quickly with a screech of pain as the bolt struck it through the skull, before crumbling into ash and dissipating in the rising winds. The soldiers that surrounded him were having poorer luck. At least two of the men that Varric and the elf had accompanied through the valley lay dead in the snow, blood pooling at their sides. Many others were depleted, starting to falter in the face of the enemy.

The Seeker’s appearance changed that.

As much as Varric hated to admit it, fighting beside Cassandra was an invigorating experience. Her sword arm was unparalleled and her grace in battle unmatched, slicing through the onslaught of demons unfazed. The soldiers stood taller and fought harder when she emerged from the smoke of the burning valley, her eyes alight and visor low. _She was fierce? Alarming? Terrifying?_ Varric’s skill as a writer seemed to fail him every time he sought to describe his would-be captor. He could never find the right words to describe the Seeker’s paralyzingly dark gaze.

With Cassandra and the elf’s arrival, the demons fell swiftly. The smell of burning flesh rose in the air as the red-haired elf struck down the last of them. It was Solas that then moved to act.

“Quickly, before more come through!” He grabbed the elf, as if to pull her arm from its socket and thrust it towards the rift. The Mark seemed to connect – that was the only word Varric could use to describe it – engulfing their surroundings in a wicked green light, the same light that emanated from the thunderous Breach above. The little elf was enshrouded with crackling lightning, and just as he thought she might collapse from the force, she tore her arm back and with it, the rift snapped shut with a sharp crack. It was only Solas that kept her from tumbling to the ground.

“What did you do?” The girl was struggling to breathe, her words only escaped her lips in intermittent gasps. Varric could see her lips and face were bloodied and cut, the exposed parts of her limbs peppered with bruises and gashes. She was armoured lightly in leather, too lightly for this kind of fight and the material was torn significantly in places.

“I did nothing, the credit is yours.” If there was one thing Varric had learned of the older elf in the short time they’d known one another, it was that the man was too serious for his own good. It seemed humour was entirely lost on him, despite Varric’s attempts to prove otherwise on their way through the valley. The dwarf was of the opinion that they all needed a little extra humour at a time like this, especially in the face of danger. It could keep a different kind of demon away.

The monkish apostate disagreed.

The conversation had devolved into discussion of the Mark on her hand and its potential ability to close the Breach in the sky. Varric took the time to size up the elf, the murderer as Cassandra would attest. She was young, too young – she couldn’t be older than a teenager, and her height did little to challenge that assumption. She was well-built for an elf, a little stockier than others of her kind largely down to the trace of muscle than ran through her limbs. Varric also thought he could see a faint trace of Dalish markings on the elf’s face.

“It appears you hold the key to our salvation.”

“Good to know,” Varric interjected, recognising that this was as good a moment as any to enter the conversation. “And here I thought we’d be ass deep in demons forever.”

The little elf had sheathed her spectral blade, and from what Varric could make out, she was exhausted. That, and the slight hollow of her cheek indicated she had not eaten in a number of days. How she could fight the way she did and in the state that she was, Varric was unsure, as well as seriously impressed.

“Varric Tethras.” He made an exaggerated bow by way of introduction to the young elf, and he thought he caught a glimpse of a smile. “Rogue, storyteller and occasionally, unwelcome tag-along.” He flashed a quick wink at the Seeker, and he was satisfied to see her grit her teeth as a result.

“Tethras? Aren’t you the one that wrote ‘A Tale of the Champion?” Varric detected a hint of the Free Marches in the girl’s voice, mixed with the subtle lilt of the elven tongue.

“I’ve never known the Dalish to be a fan of my work, but I’ll take the compliment.” He found himself grinning, despite his best attempts to stifle it. The Seeker’s lip curled.

“My name is Solas, if there are to be introductions. I am pleased to see you yet live.” The elf watched his charge closely, Varric noted that he eyed the elf’s hilt and sword arm carefully, as if eager to see it in action against it.

When the girl looked at him quizzically, Varric supplied an answer. “He means, ‘I stopped that Mark from killing you while you slept,’ didn’t you Chuckles?”

“Indeed.” Did he detect a hint of bitterness at the nickname? Varric hoped so.

“You know a great deal about this magic, then?” The young elf had noticed the older elf’s curiosity at her sword arm, and Varric could see her searching his gaze for an answer, for two answers it would seem. Her curiosity did her credit, she obviously wasn’t an idiot and didn’t appear to trust the figures that surrounded her. Varric could identify strongly with the sentiment.

“Like you, Solas is an apostate.”

_Definitively Dalish, then. No city elf could hide their magic until their teens._

“Technically, all mages are now apostates, Cassandra.” Was it a tinge of fear that Varric detected in the man’s retort, fear of what might happen if the accusation were to stick? A fear echoed in the girl’s eyes as she considered the Seeker’s venom. The little elf didn’t have a lot going for her at the moment, that much was sure. The Divine’s supposed murderer being a Dalish apostate was just what the Chantry would enjoy, the perfect scapegoat comprising of Andrastians’ two greatest fears manifesting in a single form.

“My travels have allowed me to learn much of the Fade, and I came to offer whatever help I can with the Breach. If it is not closed, we are all doomed, regardless of origin.” His glance at the Seeker was fleeting, but the girl noticed. It was then Varric noticed her eyes. A fierce amber, bright and searching as she took in her surroundings, so bright it was as if they were aflame. There was something both intriguing and terrifying in her gaze. Varric could not place it, but felt gooseflesh run up his arms as he considered her.

_Who is this kid?_

“Seeker, you should now. The magic at work here is powerful, too powerful for any mage, any and all I could hope to imagine, even one with such a particular talent as your prisoner.”

“Larkin.” Each of them turned to her, surprised. “My name is Larkin. I-” She hesitated. “I thought it might be useful to know.” The Seeker’s brow furrowed and Varric found himself smirking. _Cassandra truly is a terrible interrogator._

“Understood.” The Seeker is not clear to whom she is addressing. “Come, we must reach the forward camp quickly. Lelianna awaits us.” She sheathed her blade before moving on through the valley, her march swift. Solas followed quickly behind, his eyes lingering momentarily on the young elf. His gaze flashed again between her Mark, her sword arm and then her eyes. Larkin held his gaze. He moved on quickly, though Varric thought he might have caught the flush at Chuckles’ cheeks, not necessarily a factor of the cold.

“Well, Bianca’s excited.”

“Bianca?”

Varric reached behind to pat the crossbow at his back, as affectionately as you could pat a piece of wood. Larkin grinned, as a hint of a laugh escaped her lips.

“You named your crossbow Bianca?”

Varric made a grunt of affirmation. “And she’s going to be a lot of help in the valley.” Larkin nodded as she glanced over the bodies strewn haphazardly over the stone, flesh and steel torn open indiscriminately.

“I think you’re right.” She moved forward, a slight shake visible in her limbs, whether from the cold or the fear of what came next, Varric could not tell.

Varric breathed in, smoke from the burning pine forest clawing at his nose and throat, before following the rest of the party further into the mountains.

 

…

 

The Pride Demon was, as you say, unexpected.

The beast stood so tall, Lark’s head could barely reach its kneecap. She had never seen anything like it, had never felt her will falter so decisively. The creature was armoured in plated rock, a spark of violet lightning coursing across its muscular limbs and with every step it took towards them, the ground shook as if the earth would crack open and swallow them whole. In the back of her dazed mind, she heard Cassandra call to the archers stationed in the rubble of the temple around them to fire upon the demon but if she did it had little effect. Arrows glanced off the demon’s limbs as if they were nothing and as the beast raised an arm to strike down the soldiers, Lark caught a glimpse of its claws – black and sharp and longer than her own torso. As she squinted upwards, caught in the light of the Breach, she saw several pairs of black eyes gleaming out of its horned skull and fixing her with a cold, dead stare.

Worst was its laugh. As Cassandra and Lelianna’s forces made a move to approach, it laughed a deep, sonorous echo that was eerily human and eerily familiar. Some of the soldiers fled in the face of it, dropped their weapons and ran, not looking back. One or two made it to the edge of the crater, scrambling over the rocks and the glow of red lyrium, but most were caught by a strike of the demon’s lightning and in an instant were split in two and burnt to a black crisp.

She had glimpsed demons in her dreams of the Fade, had felt the familiar brush of terror on a cold night deep in the forests of the Free Marches but never had she imagined she would face one like this. Lark could not move, she could not think, she could not breathe. Fear and hunger racked her insides, clinging to her heart. The blade in her hand, for the first time in a long time, faltered and blinked in to nothing.

“FORWARD!”

Cassandra’s voice rang out a cross the battlefield and Lark felt something in the air shift. The soldiers that remained raised their blades higher, Lelianna’s head perked to the sound and her grip on her bow tightened. They moved as one, running at the creature, their battle cries rising. Lark caught the sound of invocations to Andraste, to the Maker, to the dead Divine, all calling for aid and for safety. The creature only laughed.

The elf, Solas, hurled ice at the creature’s skull while the dwarf, Varric, darted between its legs, firing arrows into the beast’s hide, trying to find a chink that was not there. Neither appeared to have much effect, they only seemed to scratch the demon’s armour, not penetrate it. And the creature only laughed.

“We must strip its defences, wear it down!”

Lark tried to think, tried to consider her options. She tried to call her blade back to her, tried to find the will but came up short. The hilt lay idle in her hand as she felt her heart falter. She reached for a spark of lightning and thrust a meagre bolt towards the beast, only for it to rebound off with no effect. Instead, the bolt barrelled back towards and she had to launch herself out of the way to stop from being hit by her own spell, landing hard in the dust. Lark found herself armless, with no blade and no magic to aid her. Her affinity with lightning meant she was reasonably unfamiliar with other forms of elemental battle magic, her clan’s teachings had been lax at best and her preference for self-tutoring had left her reluctant to pursue skills that did not come naturally.

_I could run._

The thought paralyzed her, shamed her. But as she looked out to where the soldiers had made their escape, she thought she could match it. She was quick and small and could easily go unnoticed by a creature with other targets. She could make it, she could leave and never look back. Flee into the wilds, and never think of this life again. There was only one person she would truly mourn.

_Baewen._

Cassandra’s cry brought her back to her surroundings. The Seeker fought hard, striking the demon again and again, avoiding it steps and strikes as she danced between it legs. But as she kept up her attacks, her slashes grew slower, her movements growing more sluggish. She was no longer fast enough as exhaustion began to set in, and as she leapt to avoid a strike of lightning, her legs caught in rubble and the Seeker crumpled, clipped on her right side by the lightning. Her scream of pain brought Lark to her senses, as the demon loomed over the warrior and laughed again, a booming malice echoing from its maw as it raised its claws to strike.

Rage filled her just as she heard Lelianna cry out for her comrade. Her grip on her hilt tightened, and before she knew what she was doing, Lark felt herself calling out.

“HEY!” She launched a barrage of lightning, all that she could muster, at the demon’s head and though it did little damage, it had the desired effect and distracted the beast, giving Lelianna the time to drag the Seeker out of immediate danger. It turned its hulking form towards the little elf, and began its approach, each step sending a quake through the earth.

Lark was steeped in fury, a realisation sweeping over her. Her brother lay dead somewhere in this wreckage, he might even be entwined in the ashes in which she breathed, yet this creature, this heinous creature, remained. As it loomed above her, stalking towards her in the wicked green light of the Breach that towered above them all, Lark felt the blade extend from her hand, felt her will return, felt her rage restore it. She was ready.

She could feel the eyes that were on her, eyeing the Mark as it crackled and seethed with heat and pain. The eyes of the soldiers they had saved in the mountains, only to be brought to a new kind of death. The eyes of the elf and the dwarf on her back, the brown-eyed story teller and the dark eyed mage who had supposedly saved her life. She would have to thank him again, if she survived.

Lark strode towards the demon, sword raised and just as the demon raised its clawed hand she ducked between its legs and hacked at the back of its knee, catching a sliver of exposed fletch. The creature roared in a mixture of surprise and pain, which gave her the opportunity she needed. Kicking herself up from the debris, she grabbed hold of the creature’s plated leg and clung onto the grooves of its armour. She began her ascent. The demon roared as she climbed, and though it tried to swipe her off, she was quick enough to avoid its claws. The rocky, jutting armour made the demon simpler to climb then she had anticipated. Her reasoning for this endeavour had been slight, only that there might be a weakness at the creature’s neck, the place least likely to be armoured. Every movement, every roar, every swipe of the demon’s claws added doubt to this assumption.

  
Passing its haunches and having reached its back, the ascent became more difficult as it twisted and writhed in its attempts to fling her off, roaring in frustration. Lark did not stop. She climbed and climbed and climbed until she was at the creature’s neck and clung to its armoured shoulder with all her might. But just as she reached to strike at the exposed flesh, the Pride Demon twisted violently and swiped at her harder than before as it realised the threat, hard enough that when it caught her thigh, the pain nearly made her blackout and her blade was thrown from her hand. The hilt fell away, out of sight and out of reach and now Lark realised she had no plan. Only enough strength to cling so as to not fall to her death.

Then she felt the tug of the Mark. The green light crackled and tugged again, demanding in its efforts to pull her upwards. _It wants the Breach_. Clinging with one arm to the horn of the beast’s skull, Lark allowed herself to be guided, extending her arm into the bright light.

It connected. Like a final puzzle piece slipping into place, the Mark connected. The creature’s roars and movement made it almost impossible to maintain but Lark held on, with every fibre of her being and with all the strength she could muster she clung on, tears streaming from her eyes, her teeth gritted, a hiss of a scream escaping her lips from the force of the effort.

“NOW!” It was Solas’ voice, far below, calling out to her, guiding her once more. With a tug of her arm, she wrenched her arm backwards and with a final flick of her wrist, the rift was disrupted, its connection to the Fade momentarily severed.

And then the demon fell.

Buckling, the demon fell to its knees and Lark found herself tumbling from its shoulder, landing hard in the rubble below. In that moment, searing pain lit up throughout body, every bone in her body felt as if it were aflame. Her vision black, she felt herself being dragged away. Her eyes blinked open long enough to the see the creature’s armour cracking and crumbling, before it fell to the ground in a flurry of steam and ash, exposing the creature’s vulnerable flesh to the cool mountain air as it roared in agony.

Lark’s vision returned to black as the sounds of war consumed her surroundings, cries, the clang of steel and finally, the last roar of a dying beast.

She was being pulled to her feet, her arm forcibly extended towards the sky. She heard a yell from the Seeker and then a whisper in her ear, the voice of the elven mage with dark eyes.

“Do it, Little Bird.”

The Mark connected. But the Breach fought back.

Darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for this being overly descriptive of by the book (or game) segments, battle scenes are fun to write for me! Again, thank you to anyone out there who may be reading, it's really appreciated.
> 
> (Also, kudos to those that spotted the innuendo regarding Varric's weapon of choice.)


	4. A Promise Made

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bad dreams and shaky introductions.

Larkin dreamed of a three-eyed wolf. 

It stalked towards her in the fading light, its steps curiously quiet against the forest floor, a snarl curling at its maw. Yet somehow, in spite of the encroaching darkness and looming threat, Lark found herself unafraid and as she crouched in the dirt, she extended a hand to the beast. The wolf paused to consider her, its husky breath crystallising in the cold, thin air that enveloped them. She was surprised to see it lean its head into her hand, licking her outstretched fingers and nuzzling at her palm. As she searched the beast’s dark face, she found three bright red eyes staring back at her, its gaze deep and fathomless. Then a shrill howl filled the air, and in a second the beast was gone and she was alone again in a darkening forest. The scent of burning wood filled her nostrils yet the cold grew worse, and the night grew ever darker as the trees appeared to close in around her, until the clearing was almost gone and she struggled to breathe, every breath haggard and clawing as the trees around her suddenly burst into flame.

Then the vision abruptly shifted. She stood again on the mountainside, amidst the Frostbacks, looking out over the wooded valley. The sky was empty and the winds were quiet and Baewen stood before her with his back to her. She wanted to run to him, to wrap her arms around him. Alive, he’s alive! But she found she could not move, her feet were fixed in the snow. As she struggled, she tried to reach out to him, to call his name, but she was trapped in silence. Slowly, her brother turned to her, each step agonisingly long, only to reveal a contorted and twisted body. His face bruised and bloodied, his eyes blackened and sockets empty, his chest torn open by the slash of a sword and blood dripping from every limb. He was mumbling something under his breath but Lark could not tell whether it was a prayer or a plea and as the wind and the cold rose up around them, Lark could only watch as Baewen slowly crumbled into ash and dissipated into the wind. She wanted to scream, to cry out, to run but she found that she was trapped in anguish.

The vision changed again. It was her mother who stood before her now, shrouded in darkness and humming to herself, the tune of the ancient elven lullaby she had sung to herself every day until her death all those years ago. She possessed the same dark-red hair and the same bright, amber eyes as her daughter but her olive skin was fairer and she was thinner, almost gaunt as if from lack of eating. Gilrin Lavellan looked as she did when Lark had last seen her, when the little elf was seven years old and her mother’s illness had been at its worse, when her mind had truly gone and there was little of her left, only a song. There were flowers entwined in a crown around her head, and she twisted flower stems in her hands, all the while humming that same tune. Larkin’s approach was hesitant, almost afraid to disturb her. But as she drew near, her mother’s humming abruptly stopped only to be replaced by her screams.

“LET ME GO, PLEASE! PLEASE!”

She collapsed to the ground and writhed in pain, all the while her screams rising in the void. Lark rushed to her side, feeling tears streaming down her face, but when she reached out to steady her mother, the world around them was engulfed in a wicked green light and Lark was blown back off her feet. When she looked up from where she lay crumpled in the dark, her mother had been replaced by a figure shrouded in golden light, a woman. 

The woman extended an arm to her and just as their hands touched, Lark jolted awake in a dark and unfamiliar room. 

…

It was done. A promise had been made and Lark had pledged herself to Cassandra’s fledging Inquisition in a dimly lit Chantry office, under the Nightingale’s apprehensive gaze. While their cause seemed earnest, Cassandra and Lelianna seemed to be more certain of the elf’s new title than the elf, herself.

‘The Herald of Andraste,’ that was what they had called her, what the villagers whispered amongst themselves as she had passed them that day. She played the words over, over and over again in her mind, repeated them out loud, letting them role off her tongue and echo in the emptiness of her room but she could barely make sense of them. It was a solemn title in her eyes, a mantle to be draped across her shoulders, only each time she thought about putting it on, the uncomfortable weight of it would keep her from moving and she would shrug it off again. Lark did not know if she would ever be able to bare it. 

She had learned from Cassandra what had happened after she had fallen from the Pride Demon’s back. Lark had been unsuccessful at closing the Breach completely but she had stabilised it, thankfully, so demons were no longer raining from the sky but there were growing reports of smaller rifts appearing across Ferelden and indeed further out, extending into western Orlais. All of them needed to be closed, and the Mark appeared to be the only thing capable of doing so. She had been unconscious for two days but thankfully, the Mark had stopped growing just as the Breach had, as Solas had correctly theorised. In other words, she was out of immediate danger and grateful for it. 

The last thing was the new title. When she had initially stepped from the Fade, some of the more devout soldiers who had found her half-dead had claimed the figure that had apparently appeared behind her was Andraste, framed in the golden light of the Maker. Most of the Faithful had initially dismissed these rumours, instead clinging to their fear and denouncement of the Divine’s elven murderer. Her feat at the Breach had changed that. Her defeat of the Pride Demon was well-known, the fact that she had saved the valley from complete destruction and the lives of those within it even more so, perhaps now known by all of Thedas. And tales of heroism always spread fast.

The Chantry still officially denounced her, as the angry, little man Roderick had taken great pains to emphasise, but she was no longer in chains. Instead, after her meeting with Cassandra and Lelianna, having made her uncertain pledge, she had retreated back to the cabin in which she had slept and collapsed once more from exhaustion, her hunger and pain for the moment forgotten. She dreamed fitfully and restlessly and awoke hours later, cold and apprehensive of the days ahead.

Now, Lark sat cross-legged in her bed, furs tugged across her shoulders to keep the cold at bay, examining the Mark. She held her hand up to the light and considered it. The pain had largely subsided, leaving only a dull ache – a curiosity more than a source of great fear now, much like herself. The magic still seethed and crackled, casting an unnatural aura in the air around it, still emanating that same shade of wicked green as the hole in the sky. She knew little of what to make of it yet she found herself enthralled by it. She found she could not look away, the magic felt so familiar, she figured it may have been toying with her affinity for lightning, but there was something else, an echo of something long forgotten coiling in the back of her mind. 

Some old, familiar magic come back to threaten the world. 

A groan from her stomach however shook her from her stupor and reminded her of the hunger clawing at her belly. She couldn’t remember the last time she had eaten, she could only assume the healers had tried to feed her while she had been unconscious and based on her current appetite, Lark figured that they must have been largely unsuccessful. 

Though there was another thought that drew towards the door. 

Solas, the apostate as Cassandra called him. Her memories of the events at the temple ruins were fractured and misted, but she was certain of the name he had given her. ‘Little Bird.’ A mixture of fear and anger pooled within her at the thought of it, at the thought of his all-knowing. She was determined to confront him.

Shifting out from under the furs, Lark swung her legs out of bed and pulled on her boots, the only clothing left from the expedition they had undertaken to get here. Her armour had been largely destroyed in the explosion and cast aside, and with most of her supplies gone, only the boots and her hilt were left, the hilt lying idle on the desk across the room. She wondered idly if the falcons had survived or if they had perished with Ellana and her brother. The thought hammered at her heart and she could not bear to linger on it, instead casting the memories the flashed in front of her eyes aside hastily. Stowing the hilt in her belt loop, Lark crossed the cabin floor, pushed through the door and into the sunlight.

Haven was beautiful in its own way. Surrounded by evergreen trees on all sides that peaked over the wooden walls, Haven was little more than a collection of wooden cabins surrounding the stone Chantry, like petitioners gathered at the feet of a Revered Mother. The Chantry building itself was simple, grey stone, far from the elaborate spectacle of others of its kind elsewhere in the world. Still, the solid, oak doors were adorned with the bright, golden crest of the Sunburst Throne, and the statues of Andraste that stood at either side were carved finely, her hair flowing and eyes alight. The air was filled with the smell of wood and salted meats and the taste of the snow that drifted lazily in the breeze, and all was cast in the glow of the sun that spilled over the surrounding peaks. The lake that was situated to the south was completely frozen over, the ice thick enough to walk across, so much so that some of the village children were chasing each other across it, skidding along in boots and rudimentary ice skates. It shimmered in the sun like a mirror, reflecting the sea of grey clouds and a hint of the light of the Breach. The village forge and market were gathered in a clutter at the lake’s edge, bustling with movement. It was a hardy place, not built for a comfortable life but a working one.

The village was filled to the brim with people, so much so that it appeared to groan under the weight of them all. Cassandra moved fast, it would seem. Soldiers with armour emblazoned with the crest of the Inquisition Eye and Sword marched quickly by, carrying stamped supply boxes or missives to the Seeker and Nightingale. The symbol was mildly terrifying to Lark, though she imagined that was the intention. She wondered whose choice it had been, the Nightingale perhaps? The remaining Chantry clerics, too, swarmed the village, their eyes accusing. Lark imagined the Chancellor lurked somewhere among their masses, eager to denounce her once more. 

Lark moved quickly through them all, averting her eyes from their stark gaze. Whispers rose as she passed, but not nearly as much as they had when she had initially emerged the day prior. Head down, Lark moved quickly and quietly, in the direction that hopefully led to a full stomach.

She found the small tavern at the heart of the village quickly enough. The sign that swung above the door named it ‘the Singing Maiden,’ and sensing the familiar scent of meat and mead in the air, she pushed inside. The intense warmth of the open hearth hit her first, washing over her pleasantly and chasing away any trace of chill. The place was packed, a flurry of movement, filled with everyone from villagers, to servants, to soldiers and everyone in between. Over the mismatch of conversation, the sound of a tinkering lute rung out. The bard was young and pretty, and stood by the fire, humming along to the tune of an old ballad. She couldn’t make out any familiar faces, and the ruckus of the room meant that she moved largely undetected to the counter. That changed when the bartender caught sight of her and dropped the tray of tankards she was holding with a sharp clang.

“HERALD?!”

The silence that followed this outburst was deafening, with every eye in the room upon her. It was worse when the woman attempted to curtsey.

“W-welcome, Herald. W-we are h-happy to serve.” 

Lark could not move, could not think of how to respond. Lelianna had warned that they had not attempted to curtail her growing reverence, but this was more extreme than she had anticipated. 

“I-”

“So, you did make it out alive then. I didn’t believe it when the Seeker told me, kid.” Lark turned towards the familiar voice, to find Varric Tethras approaching from across the room, a grin across his stubbled face and a glint in his brown eyes. The elf felt herself let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. “It’s good to see you up and about, kid. It wasn’t exactly a pleasant fall you took back at the temple.” He clapped her on the back. Lark was surprised she didn’t fall with the force of it though she was surprised at the lack of pain. “A tankard and a bowl for the Herald, if you would please Flissa.”

The bartender, Flissa, hastily made a move to fill his request, filling a wooden bowl with a heaping of stew and filling up a tankard of mead before handing it to her. 

Lark managed a meagre, “Thank you,” to the bartender.

“Come on, you can sit with me.” Varric made his way back over to his alcove in the corner where he appeared to have set up camp for the day. Papers and ink crowded the table, with an empty tankard to the side and a half full one next to a half-finished letter. Lark followed him, grateful for his help and for the fact that the conversation had begun to pick up again, if a little quieter than before. A pang of guilt did hit however, when she looked back to see Flissa hastily trying to clean up the mess. Wishing she’d thought to offer help but afraid to get up again, Lark settled deeply into the chair opposite the dwarf, feeling eyes still on her.

“Not what you were expecting?” Varric asked, his grin still spread across his face as he picked up his quill and began scrawling across his papers.

Lark hesitated before answering. “Lelianna had mentioned that they hadn’t tried to stop the rumours, but I didn’t think it would be like this, no.”

“You’re a hero now, kid. I’d wager this’ll only get worse from here on out. Slaying a Pride Demon by climbing the damn thing will do that, if not the Heraldry.”

Lark felt a flush spread across her cheeks, but before the heat could reach her ears, the welcoming smell of the stew disrupted her thoughts. Stewed hare from what she could discern, she began to wolf it down, her hunger overcoming her and only stopped midway to take a swig of mead.

Varric chuckled. “Are you sure you’re old enough to drink that?” he asked, taking a drink of his own.

Lark didn’t pause to answer, only grunting through a mouthful of stew, “I thought the saying went, ‘You’re always old enough to drink in Ferelden?’”

“You’re right there,” Varric laughed. They sat in silence for a while, as Larkin ate and Varric wrote. The curious looks had largely died away by the time Lark had finished, and she found herself feeling fuller then she could remember ever having been previously. After a few minutes of sitting contently fed, she found herself considering her companion.

“So, are you writing another book or…?”

“Letters to associates in Kirkwall and the Merchant’s Guild,” he replied, not looking up, “It would seem people are keen for news of this so-called Inquisition.” He paused. “And on you.”

Lark sat up straighter, though the bloat of her stomach protested vehemently. “Me?”

“A new power in Thedas is rising, and everyone wants to know what it’s doing. And given the Chantry’s denouncement of you, that makes you a bit of anomaly. A Herald of a deity whose official spokespeople on earth detest you. Makes for quite the political intrigue.”

Lark considered his words slowly, her throat suddenly dry. She took another swig of her drink, but it went down too quickly and she felt a choke rise in her throat.

“It’s a lot to take in, I’ll admit.” she managed to splutter. Varric’s grin did not drop, though she appreciated his offer for a pat on the back. Lark found she was enjoying the dwarf’s company, his laughter made her want to laugh with him, to smile when he smiled. His brown eyes crinkled at the edges, and his unbuttoned shirt revealed an unfortunate amount of curled chest hair, but he was kind and he was yet to look at her like she may spontaneously combust before his eyes as the Seeker and the Nightingale did. Uncertain of what to make of her, sure, but no fear. Not yet anyway.

Varric scrawled what look like the curve of a signature at the bottom of his last parchment sheet before throwing his quill down and taking a long swig from his tankard

“So, I have a question for you, kid.”

Lark considered him for a moment, uncertain. “Go ahead.”

“Where did you learn to fight the way you do? I’ve never known the Dalish to have a proclivity for Chantry scholarship.”

Lark felt herself reach for the hilt instinctively, her thumb tracing its groves. She took it from her belt and laid it on the table between them, reluctance taking hold of her heart.

“I taught myself.”

Varric raised an eyebrow. Lark had expected the sentiment.

“My clan would trade game for supplies when we passed near human villages when I was young.” 

Varric’s eyebrow rose higher and a smirk teetered on his lips.

“Younger,” Lark conceded, a little bitterness creeping into her voice. “We’d get a variety of things in return, but when I was ten we traded with a group of Chantry missionaries we encountered near Ostwick. They gave us a chest of old Chantry texts as payment, mostly made up elaborately bound copies of the Chant and old texts. My grandmother, our Keeper, wanted to strip them of their bindings and sell them on without the pages, but I went searching through them before she could, determined to save at least one. The book I stole was smaller and simpler than the others but with a touch of silver filigree at the edges, and it was full of diagrams and instructions on how to fight so I just followed them. I twisted a little bit of iron into the shape of a hilt and just copied the pictures. I imitated the magic, recited the incantations and learnt to wield the sword that way.”

Varric leaned back in his chair and considered her for a moment, then the hilt sitting between them. Lark was concerned when his grin dropped slightly and his brow furrowed.  


“I’ll admit, it’s quite something to see. The spectral blade is pretty intimidating, but I’m itching to put it into a story, perhaps in the hand of a fateful heroine or two.” He winked and Lark found herself smiling, despite her best attempts to stifle it. She wasn’t used to the compliment and it showed, but her the small spark of pride was replaced by the flash of a memory; the Keeper enraged, the text and her hilt being torn from her hands, the smell of burning pages and the flash of pain at her ear where she had been struck all those years ago. 

A figure appearing at their side interrupted her dark thoughts. The soldier was dressed lightly, a hood pulled over her head. Lark assumed she must be a scout of some form.  


“Herald. Seeker Pentaghast requests your presence at the council meeting in the Chantry office, this evening.” Lark had barely had the chance to nod in acknowledgement before the scout marched off, set to another task. The elf sat back in her chair, grimacing.

“You’ll be fine, the Seeker vouches for you remember. No one will harm you if it means crossing her.” Lark appreciated the hopefulness in Varric’s tone but wasn’t sure if she quite bought it herself.

Having finished their food, Lark spent much of the rest of the afternoon by the side of Varric’s campfire to the east of the village, listening to stories of the Champion of Kirkwall and his various escapades. Lark already new much of the more famous details having been read his book when she was small with the other clan children, but she found herself engrossed in his accounts of the horned Qunari first hand, of the madness of the Kirkwall templars and the hum of red lyrium, of the Champion’s drunken endeavours both private and public. When she demanded more, he spoke of other places she’d never been before, from the shining parapets of the Winter Palace to the bright colours of the summer market in Val Royeaux to the vast desolation of the deserts to the east. Some of these he had seen first-hand, others he simply relayed accounts from his companions of but all left the little elf engrossed and eyes wide. She found herself comfortable at his side, bathing in the firelight and feeling her skin and clothes warm to the touch. When he asked questions about her or her life prior to the Conclave, she became evasive, gave short, non-descript answers. The dwarf obviously noticed her reluctance, so did not press her, though she imagined that might change in the future. Instead, she chose to forget the world around her, the stares and whispers, the fear lingering at the edges of her mind, of the grief that threatened to consume her thoughts. 

But then the she would catch the green glow of the Breach reflected in the dwarf’s eyes and glance up, hoping it would disappear if she wished hard enough. Instead the Breach remained, like a wound in the skin of the sky, festering in a haze of clouds and lightning. She knew little of what to make of it, only knowing that she was afraid to stare too long yet engrossed by its power. 

As she sat she realised that there was no sign of the other elven apostate in their number. Varric told her he had seen little of him in the days following their assault on the Breach, Solas seemed to keep to himself as much as possible. From what he’d heard from Adan, the lead healer in the village, he had been out sourcing herbs for him in the surrounding woods, leaving at first light and returning at dusk laden with elfroot and embrium, the sheer number of which was surprising given the early summer snows, the healer noted. Lark was determined to find him, at first light she would attempt to seek him out.

Now, however, as the sun hung lower and lower in the sky, Lark found she could avoid the Inquisition no longer, and having said her goodbyes to the storyteller, she made her way to the Chantry.

The inside of the building was beautiful, the main hall laden with candles casting a flurry of shadows across the walls, bookshelves and tapestries. Scenes of war and battle, Andraste on the pyre, depictions of her visions of the Maker all alight and alive in light and shadow. The floor was carpeted in red and gold, the hall furnishings were simple but well-made and the air that filtered up into the high ceilings was musty but warm. Lark had never seen the inside of a Chantry and she wondered if those that filled the rest of the world were like this.

The hall was empty, not a soul in sight. As she crossed the floor, Lark noticed the gated door that led down to the cells, where she had awoken in chains surrounded by armed men. She kept her distance. She approached what she remembered to be the Chantry office, and as she got closer, she heard the sound of raised voices, both familiar and unfamiliar. 

“You are asking us to put our faith in a child, Seeker. Even you must realise our misgivings.” It was a man’s voice, Ferelden from the accent and unfamiliar. The animosity in his voice made her stop short.

“She has demonstrated her capability in battle, Commander, and she possesses our only hope for closing the Breach completely. Any other suggestions are welcome, but I imagine none present a better hope of stopping this.” Cassandra voice echoed loudly despite the muffling of the oak door. It continued to surprise to Lark to find her most adamant accuser had since become her most staunch defender.

“The Commander has a point, Cassandra. An elven apostate is too easily condemned and cast aside, and one so young could implicate us as naïve and blind by association. Perhaps instead, we could downplay her role for the time being, emphasise the Heraldry and not the Herald, herself.” Another unfamiliar voice, female with a thick accent, one Lark had never heard. 

“I believe it would be hard to now distinguish one from the other, Josie. Besides, her youth does have its benefits. Her image is ours to craft, and her heritage only poses a threat if we do not contain rumours of her upbringing. The rumours of the Dalish are simple and wide-ranging; we can dictate them as we please if the need arises. Besides, if all else fails, she is ultimately a curiosity on which we can capitalise.” The Nightingale spoke now, her words calculating.

“It still means we have our chances depending on a child, our entire cause rests on what I have heard are small shoulders. Surely, you see the danger?”

Lark felt her jaw clench and found herself pushing through the door in a heartbeat, her vision turning red at the edges. “I would hope my anatomy doesn’t pose the greatest hindrance to your cause, ser. Besides, I would have thought it would be my ears or my magic sword that struck fear into men’s hearts rather than the broadness of my shoulders.”  


The room was as she remembered it, round and lit by torchlight with more tapestries and bookshelves lining each wall and with a huge round table at the centre. Now, a map lay across the table top, longer than Lark was tall and included lands she knew little of or had never even heard of. Four figures stood around it, Cassandra and the Nightingale to the left and a man and a woman she did know to the right. The woman was only a little taller than herself, with beautiful brown skin and eyes, both the colour of caramel, with dark hair pinned back in a braided halo, a practical but pretty style, and with her fine clothes, Lark assumed she was of the nobility.

The man was different. He was only just taller than the Seeker, though the mop of curly blonde hair swept back off his face added a little to his height. He was clad in heavy armour, steel glinting in the torchlight with a thick, fur mantle strapped across his broad shoulders and a long sword at his hip. The cut of his jaw was strong and square, lined with a hint of fair stubble, with a scar at the edge of his lip. Deep brown eyes gazed out of what was a decidedly handsome face, Lark found herself admitting. The man exuded power, his gloved hand resting lightly on the pommel of his sword, as if ready for a fight. Though in that moment his expression was startled at her entrance and her words.  
While the others’ eyes had widened, the Nightingale only smirked at the outburst.

“Herald.” The Seeker inclined her head, but not without casting a side long glance at her compatriots across the table. “How is your mark? Does it continue to trouble you?”

“Not much, any more. I’m more curious as to how it got there.” The red in her vision had started to dissipate, and with the anger subsiding she suddenly found herself with eyes on her once more and anxious because of it.

“As are we all,” the Nightingale interjected. Though her red hair was mostly tucked into her violet cowl, the small part visible shown in the torchlight, as if aflame. Her eyes remained as piercing as ever as she considered the elf.

“I called you here to introduce you to the Inquisition’s council,” Cassandra said, indicating those around her. When Lark glanced at the man, he looked a little sheepish, his eyes momentarily averting her gaze.

“May I present Lady Josephine Montilyet of Antiva, the Inquisition’s Ambassador and Chief Diplomat.” Lark was surprised when the Lady curtseyed.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Herald, we have heard much of your feats in the valley.” Josephine, as she was called, radiated intelligence, her stare less piercing than the Nightingale’s but no less astute. 

“Thank you.” A little surge of pride rose in her chest at the compliment, before she remembered the woman’s words moments before.

Noticing nothing, Cassandra continued, “This is Commander Cullen Rutherford, leader of the Inquisition’s military forces.”

“Such as they are. We lost many soldiers in the valley, and I am afraid we will lose more before this is through.” The man’s sheepish expression had dropped to be replaced by a furrowed brow. Lark searched his gaze, unsure of what to make of him. His words had been scathing yet now the shared sentiment of her supposed ineptitude seemed to have been forgotten. He held her gaze now, inclining his head in respect. His posture was that of a soldier, taut and starkly upright though there was something a little unsure in the air around him, a feeling of discomfort between them that she couldn’t quite shake. She felt a spark of lightning course across her fingertips instinctively as his dark gaze lingered.

“And of course, you know Sister Leliana. Our spymaster.”

“Your tact is unparalleled, Cassandra.” Lark couldn’t help but smile at the sarcasm in Leliana’s tone. “But indeed, that moniker would adequately detail my role. We are in the process of amassing a network of contacts through Ferelden and Orlais, some of my associates who I worked with under the Divine have joined us but mostly I am training new recruits.”

“Indeed, there has been much to discuss. Not least a plan for a second assault on the Breach, as well as a plan on how to best engage with the Chantry. We would like your input, if you are willing?”

All eyes on her and unsure whether to interpret it as a request or a demand, Lark nodded. 

“What do you need me to do?”

…

Cullen knew little of what to make of the girl.

He had been told of her attack on the Pride Demon, how she had slayed it almost single-handedly with a flaming sword in hand yet the longer he considered her across the table, the more his incredulity grew. She was small, even for an elf, and when the Seeker had said she was young, he had not imagined this extreme, had not imagined the teenager who stood before him – his words had been scathing, he knew as much, but his fears had not been quashed in slightest by her the temper of her retort.

Her appearance was similarly unusual, not least because of the pale Dalish markings that lined her face and he could only imagine what the Chantry would think of her. It was simple in design, the white twisted branches that framed her bright, amber eyes looked pale against her dark skin. Her dark hair was tangled and unrulily braided, her eyes alert and each time they met his own, accusing. His templar training meant he could sense her magic in the air, and it felt unfamiliar to that of other mages he’d known; a crackle of lightning tinged with something else, something older and deeper, something he could not place. Cullen had to fight the urge to reach out to dampen it, to push against it and he could tell that she could sense him, sense his own power in the air. If she knew of his templar origins, she was yet to indicate as such. Cullen did not fear mages as he had done all those years ago, did not feel the old terrors rise in his throat and gut as he searched her gaze but something about her unnerved him in that moment. 

It was then that Cassandra’s words echoed in his mind. She is our only hope of stopping this, Commander. Trust me as you have done before. The Seeker had sought him out in the worst of the chaos in Kirkwall, had asked for his help, had put her faith in him when he believed he did not deserve it. The Seeker’s faith continued to astound him, faith in the Maker’s will in the hands of a girl. The least he could do was put his faith in her judgement, for now.

There was something powerful in her gaze, he had to admit. The soldiers’ stories had frightened him at first, and now as he watched the elf, he could only imagine the sight of her tiny form tumbling from the Fade, framed in golden fire…

The debate about the rebel mages and templars had been set aside for now, Mother Giselle’s words had been relayed, now the Seeker laid out her aim to expand into the Hinterlands and push back the guerrilla groups there. 

“The refugees are dying without the Chantry’s aid in the hills, and the Arl of Redcliffe has been distinctly silent in the face of requests for aid. Our forces are small, but we have enough to take back the Crossroads. We owe this much to Mother Giselle’s relief efforts.”

“I can have forces dispatched by the morning, Seeker, though it will take a few days before they can reach the Hinterlands.”  
Cassandra nodded her thanks. “The plan is set then. The Herald will ride out in a week’s time to meet the Revered Mother. Until then, we can plan our course of attack and send word to Master Dennet of our impending arrival. We will discuss Val Royeaux more in the morning.” The meeting dissolved quickly, with Josephine moving quickly to send word to the Revered Mother and contacts in Val Royeaux. 

The Seeker led the Herald out into the hall, deep in discussion, of what Cullen was unsure. As he watched them leave, he did not hear the Nightingale approach until she was at his elbow.

“What are your thoughts on the Herald having met her, Commander? Any changes in opinion?”

Cullen paused, considering his answer. “I’m not sure what to make of her, no. Though you did not lie when you said she was young.”

“Eighteen as far as I was able to discern. I have sent missives to her clan in the hope of attaining more knowledge of her background, though the Dalish are notoriously hard to track down. I am interested in what they have to say of their kin’s ascension to the ranks of the holy.” 

“Indeed.”

“With that being done then, I will speak to you in the morning, Commander. Sleep well.” Sister Leliana inclined her head before sweeping from the room leaving Cullen alone with his thoughts. He considered her well wishes and wondered if he would sleep at all this evening. Tucking away his reports, he retreated solemnly to his room. It was a small space that he shared with two other templars who had arrived with him from Kirkwall, Ser Brendan and Ser Lysette. It was cramped and lacked a window but the hearth was open and filled the room with warmth and the bed was clean and comfortable, it was more than he had been expecting in truth. It was other things that plagued his mind now, other concerns that kept him awake in the darkness and now he realised that each time he closed his eyes, a pair of bright amber eyes stared back at him, framed in the blue hum of lyrium.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all those who are reading this, you are appreciated dearly!


	5. Doubt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Doubt stalks the Inquisition, as memories plague those that suffer most.

It was in the half-light of a pale, clouded dawn that Lark sought out the other elven apostate in their number. The snow crunched under foot as she climbed the wooded hill to the east of Haven’s gate, a little of the cold seeping through her well-worn boots and bringing a flush to her cheeks. In the trees around her, she caught glimpses of a fleet of songbirds crooning, their music tuneful and soothing in the early light.

She had gone to the old medic Adan, first. Grey at the temples, unkemptly bearded, and with the hint of a temper stewing in his dark eyes, Lark was surprised that he was one of the healers who had saved her life. He didn’t appear to have the most compassionate of temperaments and his words were brusque and few in number, but when she came to his cabin he hadn’t refused her questions as he went about his work and did offer, as he put it, his congratulations on her not dying after all the hard work he had put into her survival. There was a kindness there, she had realised, a kindness she hoped to repay.

He had told her that Solas was heading to a clearing to the east, following the thin hunting path between the thickest pine. He proved difficult to follow as he left little trace in the snow, only a stray misplaced footprint here and there that was not covered by the light snowfall. Lark’s tracking ability was limited, but not that limited, and she had spent too many hours following her brother on hunts through the forest to be thwarted by some woodsman with people issues.

Lark heard the apostate before she saw him. As the trees began to thin out and the sun began to filter through the branches more brightly, she began to hear the sounds of battle up ahead, could taste the bitterness of ash on the breeze. Hastening her pace, she caught sight of a figure up ahead, a shadow against the sunlight, the glint of a staff swinging through the air. The elf stood in the centre of a wide clearing, swinging through the motions of battle, firing at a makeshift target a few metres away. The snow around his feet, feet that she noted were bare, was melted away completely to reveal the forest floor beneath. Hidden in the shadows of the woods, she watched him move, watched him conjure fire and fling it through the air with the grace of a dancer, his dark eyes reflecting the flames as he cast. She had not seen skill like it, she imagined not even Ellana could have matched his precision, the fluidity of his arches, the elegance of his swings. Yet none of his movements were extraneous, he moved efficiently and with no energy wasted in unneeded spectacle. He was a wonder to watch.

As a consequence of this fixation on his form, she did not expect the fireball that came flying at her face. It was only instinct that saved her from immediate doom, her hands flying upwards in a flash as she threw up a weak barrier barely inches from her body. It was strong enough to disperse the fire but not enough that she wasn’t blown back into the trees, her feet skidding in the dirt and her knees almost giving out beneath her. In her fear, she tore her hilt from her belt and thrust the edge of the blade towards the elf as she advanced upon him.

“What the fuck are you doing?!”

“Testing your reflexes. They are remarkably slow, if I might add.” He stood before her calmly, arms resting behind his back, unperturbed by the blade at his throat. His expression was frustratingly tranquil while Lark could only glower, anger boiling in her heart. “I would also advise that if you are attempting to hide from a quarry in the future, you would do better to remain quiet,” he said.

“You tried to kill me.” The words struggled to leave her mouth as Lark found herself short of breath, surprised at the force that the magic had taken to cast. Her body was not entirely healed she knew, and her muscles ached and groaned in protest at the exertion, her arm shaking as she extended it outwards, the redness of her scars still bright.

“Trust me, that was not my intention. I did not spend three days keeping that Mark from killing you for me to take your life here, like this. Besides, I have seen you fight for myself. A woman who can destroy a Pride Demon in single combat was never truly in any danger.”

Lark remained silent, considering his words as she caught her breath, unsure what to make of him. His features were as she remembered from their venture at the temple, the same sharp jut of his cheekbones and narrow, dark eyes so brown, they were almost black. His head was shaved cleanly, a cultish style Lark had thought. He remained quiet, pensive even as he watched her.

“I thought you were collecting herbs for Adan, not organising target practise?” she asked, lowering her blade slightly. Solas did not react, only glanced at it briefly.

“Gathering herbs only takes a moment.” To illustrate his point, Solas turned away from her and paced back to the heart of the clearing. Extending his hands forward, he cast a deep green light across the ground where the snows had melted, muttering under his breath. As Lark watched, mouth slightly agape, Solas coaxed plants into life, enchanting the natural world around him. As she watched, elfroot leaves sprouted through the earth across the muddied ground, their leaves extending upwards and drinking in the small patches of sunlight. “It takes but a little to draw them into the light. They want to see the sun before winter, and the snows are easy enough to disperse for a time.”

“Neat trick,” Lark noted, tasting bitterness rising in her throat, “but that still doesn’t explain your homicidal tendencies.” Hobbling slightly, she followed him to the centre of the clearing, keeping the blade alive at her side, and watched as he began picking the leaves and tucking them into a pouch at his waist.

“We are to set out for the Hinterlands in a week, if I am correct? The Seeker asked if I would spar with you before we set out, make sure you are ready for the fighting ahead.”

“Cassandra is training with me.”

“In swordplay, yes. But a mage needs to magic to be truly formidable, do they not? Your feat at the Breach showed exemplary skill, I will be the first to admit, however I hoped to determine to what extent luck had determined the outcome.”

Lark clenched her fists, the sword rattling slightly in her grip. “Luck?”

“Indeed. Surely you would agree minimising the need for it would be useful, yes? And if I am to be of any use to you, I need to understand the scope of your skillset.”

“Are you being patronising on purpose, or is does it come naturally to you?”

Solas chuckled. “My intention was not to be patronising, I assure you.”

“So, it is a natural trait, then.”

To her frustration, Solas’ chuckle only grew more incessant. Having picked the last of the herbs he stood now and faced her. Lark remembered meeting him in the valley days before, shrouded in the light of the Breach and surrounded by chaos and battle and screams. She remembered his dark, knowing gaze but to her now his eyes looked brighter, as if a touch of the flame he had thrown minutes previously had been caught in the glint of his gaze. Perhaps it was the laughter that brought it out. Varric had said that in the few interactions he’d had with him, the bald elf had been only serious or stoic. Infuriating was the decidedly more accurate word that came to her mind.

Lark took a deep breath, opened her mouth to speak before thinking better of the multitude of curse words that rested on the tip of her tongue. She had to stop herself from growling in frustration. She was not a child to be minded, not some insipid, half-wit lacking any true ability on the battlefield.

“I am sorry to have offended you, Larkin. I assure you my continued presence here is to help, not hinder.”

Lark was surprised by his tone. “Was your staying here in any doubt?”

Solas’ smile quickly dropped. “Unlike you, I do not have divine providence protecting me from the hateful eyes that surround us, or the Seeker’s wrath when it will inevitably manifest. Her accommodating nature will no doubt come to an end.”

“Cassandra wouldn’t harm you after everything you’ve done, your knowledge is too valuable.”

“I’m not sure what the Seeker would do, that is what I am most afraid of. And my help does not negate the fact that I am an apostate. A criminal.” An image of the Seeker emerged in her mind, standing over her in the valley, sword raised, eyes black. Lark’s insolence beneath the ruins of the Great Bridge had saved them from demons but it had not fostered trust, only doubt tinged.

“Then we’re in this together, you and me. So, you should try not to murder your only steadfast ally here. That would make it harder for both of us to stay alive.”

His chuckle returned. “Indeed.” He paused. “We are _steadfast_ allies then?”

“If needs must.”

“And according to the Breach in the sky, it would appear they do.”

A truce then, brokered unexpectedly. They were both silent for a moment, leaving the declaration hanging in the air, each contemplating the other. It was Solas who broke it first, his breath crystallising in the cold breeze.

“So, you must have come here for a reason, no? Given you were not aware of the prior arrangement?”

“You know my name.”

“Yes, I imagine all of Ferelden and at least some parts of Orlais must know, I assume I am not the only one.”

“No, not that. You called me ‘little bird’ at the temple. Only one person knows that name, only one person has ever called me by it and he is…” The word ‘dead’ sat thickly in her throat, threatening to choke her. Her eyes itched and her mouth went dry.

“I am sorry, I did not mean to cause you pain.” Solas face was still calm, but the light had faded in his eyes. He looked older suddenly, as if a number of years had passed as they had stood there silently in this empty, shaded grove. “You spoke those words in your sleep a number of times, called them out when you were in the worst of your torment. I thought it was a way of seeking relief or comfort so using them at the temple was simply an extension of my assumption. I was not my intention to hurt you…”

It was too late however; the memories had already begun to surge in her mind. _Amber eyes so much like her own staring out of the darkness, a broad-shouldered shadow disappearing into the snows ahead of her, two pairs of small hands extending out towards the firelight, the smell of burning flesh and ash in the wind._

           

Lark shook herself from her dark thoughts. “It is fine. I-I-” Her mouth tasted like ash. “I appreciate all you have done for me.” The sword had disappeared at her side. “I am meant to meet Cassandra soon so I should return…” The words trailed off as her vision went cloudy for a moment, tears beginning to brim in her eyes as she quickly turned away, back towards the dark forest.

“I will meet you on the lake tomorrow, then. There is no point attempting to stifle or hide our magic when we will be using it in the field. The Inquisition will have to learn to see it and not fear it, I suppose.”

Lark nodded but didn’t turn back. She barely heard him. “Sure,” she muttered. With that, she wandered back into the shadow of the woods, the corners of her vision turning red.

 

…

 

One of Leliana’s newly recruited scouts found her hours later, sheltered in the shadow of the frozen waterfall to the west, the sunlight bouncing off its jutting shards like diamonds. Her hair glinted like copper in the reflected light as she fought. She had fashioned a makeshift training dummy out of snow, securing it in a flurry of ice, and now sought to tear it down, hacking at it again and again and again until her face was flushed, her forehead glinted with sweat and her shoulders shook with the strain of the exertion. With a last slash, Lark tore the snowman’s head clean off its body and sent it careening across the ice, almost hitting the scout as he approached.

Gasping, Lark clasped her side where the pain had flared. Lark was sure she had reopened the wound at her hip and she could feel a tinge of heat emanating from the spot. As she turned to his approach, she realised the scout couldn’t be much older than herself, barely a man, with long dark hair tied off his face and with a pair of grey eyes built into a young, round face, darkened with fear at the display. He was tall though, and strangely familiar.

“The Seeker is looking for you, Herald. She requests your presence at basic training.” The words were barely out of the scout’s mouth before he ran off back in the direction of the village as quickly as he had come. Lark gritted her teeth, cursing that she had been found.

Lark had spent a great deal of her life angry. In the grasp of the Keeper’s wrath, tormented by the other elven children who had grown up alongside her, under the watchful gaze of all those who did not trust her power… or her heritage. They were methods she had discovered of alleviating this anger, not least in the swing of her sword arm. Now a new emotion took hold of her, rage mixed with the subtle tinge of burgeoning grief that threatened to consume. Her swings were no longer enough, the wave of fury no longer crashed and died against the rocks of her heart but rose up to drown her.

The Seeker stood framed in the light of the faint noonday sun that peaked through the greying clouds as she stood over a group of drilling recruits, calling out instructions. Each was garbed in the colours of the new Inquisition and the ringing of newly forged steel hung stiffly in the air. They had set up a training area on the bank of the lake, just outside the village walls though the sheer number of recruits meant that they had split out onto the ice. There must have been at least fifty men and women before her, though most were young and wide-eyed. Not yet true soldiers.

“Herald!” Cassandra called out to her as she stepped away from her charges. The Seeker remained as imposing a figure as ever. She walked with power in her wake, her hand resting lightly on her pommel and her eyes dark as jet. Lark noted the recruits’ quick glances between them as they practised, between the Divine’s Right Hand and Andraste’s Herald, each still unsure quite what to make of the other.

“Seeker.” Lark considered the scene. “Am I to join the other recruits?”

“No, you will be sparring one-on-one with me and, where we deem necessary, the Commander.” A flash of gold in the sun alerted Lark to the man’s presence, marshalling a separate group of troops a few metres away, calling out commands as his men alternated between press-ups and lunges. His brow held what she now believed to be a constant furrow and with the glint of his armour and with his dark fur mantle billowing behind him in the breeze, he looked every inch the warrior. Lark imagined there must be an oil painting of him stashed somewhere in the world.

“So, shall we begin?”

Lark nodded apprehensively. “By your leave.”

…

 

Sparring with the Seeker proved frustrating. It also drew an unsubtle crowd of spectators, a mix of villagers and volunteers all craning for a look at the elven Herald of Andraste and her flaming sword.

After Larkin’s admission that her skill with a blade was entirely self-taught, Cassandra took great pains to remind her of the limitations of her tutelage. The Seeker was faster and more graceful, the swings of her sword arm were more powerful, her parries reflexive rather than an effort. Lark had never more certainly been made to realise her own ineptitude.

“Your bicep should be taut there,” the Seeker said, reaching out to steady her right arm. She moulded Larkin’s stance with her hand, her gloved grip tight around her arm. “It gives your arches more power and is more difficult for opponents to parry.” Lark felt her teeth grate as she felt eyes on her back, watching her be schooled, but allowed herself to be adjusted. It was easier to keep her mind focused on the Seeker’s instruction rather than other thoughts clamouring within her mind.

“Again.”

Lark tried to follow the Seeker’s instructions, tried to replicate the form of her muscle but with each strike found herself slipping further and further back into her old stances, into old mistakes. Her limbs began to ache, fatigue gnawing through her bones as she slashed and parried and felt herself being pushed back by the Seeker’s sharp, swift blows. Her found her feet heavy and dragging, a hindrance in the heavy snow.

“Keep your feet further apart. It will improve your balance.” Lark barely heard her instruction, her mind preoccupied by the figures who had gathered to watch. Some of the soldiers who were meant to be drilling with the Commander had slowed to watch them spar, their movements sluggish and distracted. A number of the villagers had gathered at the gates, having drifted away from the market stalls and were seated on the steps, numbering amongst them a group of wide-eyed children tucked behind their mothers’ skirts and gawking at the display. She felt uncomfortable under their expectant gaze, felt her skim itch and crackle. She noticed that both Varric and Solas had also appeared in the crowd and were watching, while muttering to one another. For a second, she thought she saw money change hands.

“Focus!” The Seeker struck Lark across the thigh with the flat of her blade, causing the elf to hiss in pain.

“Fuck.”

“Focus on your parries. Tighten your defensive stance. You’re leaving yourself vulnerable on your blind side.”

Lark could feel the frustration boiling within her, could see the edges of her vision filling with that familiar tinge of red. Her muscles taut, her grip on her blade tight, Lark pushed back against the Seeker’s attacks. The Seeker was momentarily surprised before responding to the elf’s onslaught quickly. Lark allowed her emotions to flow through her, felt anger pour through her veins like fire, burning as it went and leaving her muscles stinging. She fought better like this, felt more powerful, felt instinct take hold rather than thought. She swung repeatedly at the Seeker, pressing her further and further back until she had no choice but to step back onto the lake, her boots skidding lightly on the ice.

“Better, now press harder. Use what I taught you.”

In that moment Lark did not know if she was doing as the Seeker had instructed or only doing what felt natural. Her thrusts were still jagged but they were enough to hold her own.

The Seeker, however, was quicker. She parried with ease, extended her arm with a poise and grace in battle Lark could not match and it only made her grow more frustrated. Though Lark pushed her back across the ice, it was still the older woman who was in control. All it took was a misstep for Lark to be caught off balance and the Seeker swiftly took advantage, knocking her legs out from underneath her and leaving her sprawled across the ground. Flushed, her temple glinting with sweat and her body aching, Lark felt a growl emanate from her chest, her anger rising like bile in her throat as she squirmed on the ice, each time she attempted to push up finding her grip lax and slippery. As she lay there defeated, Lark began to feel memories trying to cloud her mind, those that had returned to her that morning in the clearing. They sought to consume and Lark could not stop them. _Amber eyes. A figure caught in smoke and ash and flame. The taste of blood in her mouth. A deep, fathomless roar. Ash in the wind._

“Here, let me-” Before she could finish, the Seeker was suddenly blown back off her feet by a blast of lightning, before landing hard across the ice several metres away. Lark heard gasps rising in the wind from the crowd of onlookers as the Seeker lay crumpled and unmoving. Lark found it difficult to breathe as she pushed herself up from the ground, her hilt momentarily forgotten as she moved to help the Seeker.

“Cassandra, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to…” She trailed off as she felt a calm descend over her, as if a cool cloth had been draped across her face and skin. It was a feeling she had only sensed once before, the feeling of a Templar dampening her magic and the Veil around her, though this time it was only light, much less powerful than the last time in Ostwick. When she reached instinctively for the spark at her fingertips it would not come. She looked around but saw no darkly armoured knights approaching, no sigil of the flaming sword ahead. Lark frantically searched for the source of the sensation and found it quickly.

She had not realised that Commander Rutherford was a templar when she had met him in the Chantry, she had been caught up in a different kind of fear there, but now it was clearer than day. His gloved hand was raised ever so slightly towards her, his dark eyes – even from afar – accusing. When Lark met his gaze, she felt fear rise in her own heart, heard echoes of the stories Baewen had told her of templars in her mind. Of masked terror and searching hands and the ring of steel and flame.

“Enough, Commander!” It was the Seeker who called out to him as she pulled herself up from the ground. “She is no danger.” The calm dissipated quickly at the Seeker’s word, only to be replaced by a spike of fear. When she glanced back at the Commander he had turned away from her and was instead moving people back, marshalling his troops back into formation and herding most of the aghast onlookers back through the village gates.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to strike you like that. I…”

“It was to be expected. There is no point in training with you if you do not practise with the full breadth of your abilities.” The Seeker appeared vastly unscathed, only moving slightly more stiffly than she had previously. “Your power is raw, we’ll have to work to temper it. I imagine Solas may be of use in that regard.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Lark thought she could see the apostate retreating back through the village gates with the other spectators though for a second, she thought she caught a glimpse of a smirk upon his lips, illuminated in the sunlight. _Chuckles, indeed_.

“I really am sorry. I honestly didn’t mean to hurt you.”

The smile that teetered on the Seeker’s lips emerged for only a moment, but Lark caught it. “Trust me, Herald. I have experienced worse injuries in the field.” The Seeker paused for a moment, considering the Commander’s watchful eyes as she sheathed her blade. Though he barked orders to his troops his eyes had not dropped from the Herald. “I think we’re done for today. I will consider a programme of training this evening before we begin again tomorrow. I have seen what I need for now.”

Lark nodded, her gaze still lingering on the Commander’s persistent glower. The longer is stare was fixed upon her, the more her skin began to itch and her limbs quake.

 _He’s a templar._ It was Ellana’s voice that filled her mind now, her silken droll that she had so often levied at the young elf. _That makes him an enemy._

“I will meet you here at the same time tomorrow, Herald. Do not be late.”

Shaking herself from her thoughts, Lark nodded before retreating hastily in the direction of her cabin, feeling her ears darkening with a flush. She could feel the Commander’s dark gaze lingering on her back as she walked. She did not look back at the Seeker.

When she reached her door, she pushed through hastily, locking it behind her and threw herself on the bed before she could be wracked by sobs. The memories would not stop now, instead they flooded her vision, threatening to drown her. No matter how hard she tried she could not shake the image of a pair of bright, amber eyes staring back at her through the darkness.

…

The sun had long since sunk behind the surrounding mountains by the time Cassandra slumped into a chair in the War Room. She had foregone her armour in her quarters, and now sat in a simple shirt and pair of suede slacks, rubbing a hand across the rapidly bruising flesh of her lower back. She had not lied to the girl when she had told her she had received worse injuries in the field, but as the years had passed she found that smaller injuries had begun to take a harder and harder toll upon her body. The Seeker was not old by any means, not yet forty even, but she was not a teenager any more that much was certain and her muscles took great pains to remind her of that every day.

The elf had surprised her, there was no doubt now that the power she had demonstrated at the Temple could no longer be considered a fluke. Larkin Lavellan had forged herself well, it would seem, but the Seeker intended to sharpen her edges, temper an ever so slightly dulled blade until it shone. The girl’s instincts were good and Cassandra knew they might save her in the wilds, but in the face of trained templars and rogue mages? She wondered if instinct might be the girl’s undoing.

As she sat, her limbs heavy, the room grew dimmer as the candle wax melted and dripped away across the stone floor. The warmth that enshrouded her was a comfortable one, familiar even, one that reminded her of campfires on campaign and evenings at the Divines’ side, both Justinia and Beatrice before her. If she focused hard enough, she thought she could smell the faint remnants of cinnamon, a favourite scent of Justinia's. She wondered if Justinia had come here before the Conclave, had she visited her charges before making her ascent to the summit where the Temple once stood. Cassandra knew that she would never know that answer to that question.

As she gazed out over the maps across the wooden table, mildly admiring the craftmanship of the little wooden figurines strewn across the paper world, she felt herself beginning to drift off, her eyelids drooping shut. _Any thought of strategy can wait until the morning_ , she thought yawning.

A sudden knock at the door, however, jolted her from her lethargy.

“Come in.” She had to stifle a yawn.

She saw the shadow of his mantle before she saw the Commander’s face. The fur was a beautiful shade of auburn that shone ever so slightly in the dim light, giving him an almost regal aura. For a moment, Cassandra was reminded of another golden-haired former templar, a man she had not seen in years who now, if the letter of warning he had sent to Leliana was true, was facing the turmoil within the ranks of the Grey Wardens firsthand.

“Good evening, Seeker. May I have a word?”

“Of course, Commander. Please, make yourself comfortable. There’s no point standing on ceremony at this hour.” Cassandra noticed he was still garbed in full armour, the dark plate glinting in the light. Thinking about it, she realised she had never seen the man without it on. The Commander made no attempt to sit, instead remaining standing, a slight shake at his fingertips.

“I wanted to speak with you about the Herald, and her display this afternoon.”

“What of it concerns you, Commander?”

“I thought it might be wise to move her training out of the sight of the village gates, so as to not attract any prying eyes.”

“On the contrary, I think it is useful to demonstrate to our newer recruits and volunteers the skill of our Herald, do you not agree? Not everyone was able to see her feat at the Breach and it is much easier to consolidate tales of her heroism and Heraldry when she maintains a more visible presence here.”

“And her use of magic? Surely it does little to enamour her supporters? They watched her throw you across the ice.” The Commander’s brow grew more and more furrowed as he spoke, Cassandra noted the familiar crease just above the bridge of his nose as it began to form.

“I imagine it impressed them, maybe they even enjoyed seeing a Seeker of Truth fall to the likes of a Dalish elf. Besides, our Herald is a mage and Andraste has put her faith in her regardless of her origin. There is no point trying to hide it, instead we must let the Inquisition and the world at large grow accustomed to that fact.” The Commander remained silent for a moment as he considered her answer. “Cullen, is this matter more about the townspeople’s discomfort or yours?”

The Commander looked startled. “No, no, I assure you I am fine with it…with her, I mean.”

“If that is true then how is it you were able to dampen her magic, this afternoon?”

“I-”

“You have taken lyrium, again, I presume? Since you met her yesterday.”

The Commander’s face darkened, his eyes downcast. “I-”

“You asked me to watch over you, Cullen. Your choices are your own, but you asked that I hold you them and I intend to fulfil my promises.”

“I promise I have not taken any since meeting her, Seeker, I only pushed myself to use what little that remained in my veins to…”

“You could have hurt yourself, you must surely be in severe pain?”

As she watched, the strain of his jaw indicated that her words were true.

“I assure you, I am fine. This…this was a mistake…I am sorry for intruding on your evening.” He moved to leave however Cassandra rose quickly from her chair before he could, slamming her fist onto the hard-wooden table top.

“Commander.” Her voice had risen to the pitch and volume of a command. “I understand that the decisions you have made were not done lightly, and I respect you infinitely for them. But do not allow a hint of the prejudice that you had told me you had forgone since serving in Kirkwall to undermine your good work here. The Herald is young and a mage, and as tempestuous as those two facets would suggest, but that does not mean you should regard her with hostility or fear. Far from it in fact, she is responsible for saving our lives and we should be repaying that debt in kind not decrying her as a heathen and hiding her from the world.”

The Commander remained silent for a long moment, his back turned. His mantle cast long shadows in the candle light, reflecting the glint of copper off of the stone walls.

“Forgive me, Seeker. I am trying to do as you say, I promise. But it can be hard.”

Cassandra had been told the stories of the fall of the Kinloch Circle all those years ago and as she watched the slump of the Commander’s shoulders and the slight quiver of his lip as he spoke, the tales came flooding back to her. The things that had happened there had left their mark on the man, that much was certain. They plagued him even now, she realised. What must have been like there, to have suffered what the Commander had suffered?

“I know, Cullen. I know.”

_Do I? Do I truly?_

Cassandra breathed deeply. “Why don’t you get some sleep if you can, we can discuss this further in the morning.”

“Yes, I think you are right.” The Commander turned and inclined his head briefly. “Goodnight, Seeker.” He left as quickly as he had come.

Cassandra fell back into her chair, resting her head in her hands. The Commander was a smart and capable man but his fear remained poorly masked. Despite it all, as she held herself there, she did not regret her decision to ask for his aid in this endeavour. She had faith in the man, though the question remained if he had faith in himself.

A stiffness began to settle into her limbs as she remained slumped there, as the candles burned lower and lower until she sat in almost complete darkness. It was too late to think more on this now, she realised. Rubbing her neck where the sinew had begun to ache, she blew out the last of the candles and moved to leave, retreating solemnly to her chambers.

As she undressed and curled under the thin blankets of her small bed, she thought she could hear the sound of Josephine snoring lightly from across the room. Leliana lay beside her and slept decidedly more quietly. She enjoyed sharing a room with the others on nights like these, it reminded her of her old barracks during her training as a Seeker. She found that after that she never had been able to sleep in silence.

As she lay there, she played the events of the afternoon over in her mind again. The ferocity in the girl’s eyes, the fire there, had been pronounced as she had pushed the Seeker back across the ice. There was an anger within the little elf, she realised, an anger that Cassandra knew all too well herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all those reading this! I dearly appreciate it!


	6. The Judgement of Men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lark learns the ways of the Inquisition.

In the days following, Lark found herself falling into something of a routine. She would wake early each morning, rising just after dawn in her dimly lit cabin, and meet Solas at the foot of the waterfall to train for a few hours before reporting to Cassandra to spar at noon. She took her meals each day with Varric in the Singing Maiden, and in the evenings, she would cradle a tankard of honeyed mead in her weary hands and listen to more of the dwarf’s stories of the Champion and Kirkwall’s Hightown by the fire, his stories appearing never-ending in number. After a few days of sparring, Solas began to join them at their regular table in the corner of the tavern and Lark found that she enjoyed his company. They had little time to talk during their practises as he seemed to pride himself on being a quiet adversary, so it was in those moments that he first told her of his experiences of the Fade, of his studies of the Veil and its magic, of the beauty of the spirits he had dreamed and the memories he had experienced with them. Lark found the lilt of his voice pleasant, by then familiar in its cadence, and she found that when the hearth began to burn low late in the evening until it was only a handful of dying embers, she would begin to feel herself drifting off to the rhythm of his words. And each time she did, Varric would laugh and tell the elf that he was boring the girl to sleep before they all got up from the table, said their goodnights and all retreated wearily through the snow to their beds.

When sleep did come however, in the darkness of her empty cabin late at night, it was rarely as pleasant.

Each time she closed her eyes, dreams drenched in terror and violence plagued her. She dreamt of her brother most nights, witnessed his torment again and again until she woke, tangled in her clammy blankets and furs, sobbing or screaming. When she did not dream of Baewen, she dreamt of demons pouring once more from the Breach, of a great and ominous shadow that cackled as it stood before her, of a thousand obsidian eyes gleaming in the darkness. And when exhaustion eventually overcame the terror, it was a fitful and restless few hours. She awoke each morning, wearied and grieving and dreading the nights to come.

The day before they were due to set out for the Hinterlands was the worst of all. She awoke shivering and, she soon realised by the bright sunlight streaming through the clacking window shutters, late. Lark could not find it within her to explain her tardiness to Solas, and to his credit, the apostate did not press her on it. Instead, he punished her in a different manner, pushed her to fight harder in their sparring than in previous days. He fought with a ferocity that she could not match, and each time she was made to throw up a barrier against his barrage of mana, she felt herself grow weaker and weaker until her limbs shook and her head ached and she felt that she would crack under the onslaught. By the time they were done, Lark was angry and exhausted and rapidly bruising along her left side from where the heat of his flames had licked her most fiercely.

Her day got worse when she found the Commander in the Seeker’s place.

“Commander?”

“Herald.”

“Where is Cassandra?”

“The Seeker is attending to some last-minute concerns with Ambassador Montilyet prior to the start of your expedition tomorrow. She asked that I tell you to report to Master Harritt at the forge, to be fitted for your new armour, and then we are to practise together this afternoon.”

Lark considered him for a moment, feeling the icy breeze pick up as they stood in silence. As she watched him, the wind’s light, cool breath ruffled the fur of his mantle. For a moment, Lark could see the animal it had once been, a great, elegant beast of war at the Commander’s side, on lowered haunches and golden-eyed, eager to tear through its prey. The image sent a shiver down her spine.

“By your order, Commander.” She spun on her heel, before making her way towards the sound of hammering steel and the taste of sparks in the air. Lark did not look back at the man as she did so, and in so doing did not catch his careful, lingering gaze.

The village forge was small for the size of the force that now occupied it and was consequently chaotic. The place was filled to the brim with red-faced apprentices hammering iron plate over the fiery, seething furnaces or stitching thick leather to breastplates and pauldrons, and the little space between them was piled high with crates of newly forged swords and armour plating, fresh from the water baths and practically still steaming. The air was filled with a cacophony of clangs and the ringing of hammer upon steel and stank of soot and sweat and working bodies.

Master Harritt stood at the eye of this storm, arguing with a woman Lark did not recognise.  The man was older, though still broad and with thick, muscled limbs from years at his post. His age did show in his balding red hair and the slight stoop of his shoulders, and the sharp jut of his chin mildly obscured by his thick, drooping moustache. In spite of everything, Lark found herself stifling a smile when confronted with his facial hair.

As she got closer, their voices began to rise above the din of their surroundings.

“This isn’t nearly enough iron to meet the size of the order you requested. We’ve made enough to fill the caravan tomorrow but…”

“The shipment has to be sent north within the next two weeks to meet the scouts being stationed there, you’ll have to make do with what we have.” The woman was tall and slim and wrapped in a cloak of Inquisition colours.

“That is the point, Threnn, I can’t make do with this unless you want brittle swords and tin plate armour?”

“Well if there’s not enough to make swords then have your boys make knives or spears or bows, whatever comes to mind, we have to make do until we can acquire more resources from the Hinterlands. Surely the leather supply is sufficient for armour?”

“It is not that simple. For Andraste’s sake, you act as if I can just pull weaponry out of my arse?!”

Lark found herself hanging back as their quarrel intensified, hardly eager to intervene as the blacksmith’s ruddy face grew redder with each passing expletive. She leant against the stone wall, folding her arms across her chest and found her mind wandering as she waited. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the light of the Breach in the sky, the storm clouds brewing ominously as the green light crackled across the horizon. The Mark ached more strongly as she considered the sky, as if in longing.

She had spent hours in the darkness of her cabin, trying to remember the Conclave, the explosion and the Fade she had supposedly walked through, everything before she had awoken in the Chantry dungeon a week ago with a Mark upon her hand, but only the shadow of memories remained. Every time she tried to remember, the images evaded her. It was like standing in a room filled with thick fog, shrouded in a deep black darkness where each time the silhouette of a memory would emerge from the shroud and draw closer and closer until just as it was about to step into the light, it would stop and back away until it had disappeared into the darkness once more.

Only the woman remained, alight and aflame in her dreams. And eyes, a thousand, black obsidian eyes.

“Stop loitering, knife-ear, brooms are in the back.”

Her thoughts were abruptly disrupted as the woman, Threnn, brushed past her swiftly without meeting her gaze, her cloak carving through the snow as she passed. Her expression was one of frustration, her argument with the blacksmith clearly unresolved and her lips pursed accordingly.

“No, I’m not…” Lark began, but it was of no use. The woman had already climbed the steps into the village and did not care to pay attention to the young elf’s protests.

“I’m sorry about her.” The smith’s approach had been a quiet one for such a large man. “Our dear Quartermaster has what you would call a sharp tongue and a one-track mind.” As he stood before her, she realised that Master Harritt towered over her more than she had initially presumed and with his thick arms folded across his chest and furrowed brow, he cut an imposing figure even in spite of the moustache. “You are the Herald, I presume?” His accent was Fereldan, and thick at that. Lark assumed he must be from the north, Denerim perhaps?

“Larkin. Just Lark, really.” The words the Quartermaster had used were playing over in her mind. _Knife-ear_. She had heard the word before – many times before – but it had been a while since she had had them directed at her. She felt herself shiver despite herself. “I’m sorry for getting in your way. The Commander told me that you were expecting me for an armour fitting?”

“Yes, that’s right. This way.”

He moved through the forge surprisingly deftly for such a large man. Lark found herself struggling to keep pace through the flurry of movement and metal. Her presence drew a few unsubtle stares from the young apprentices, all wide-eyed and curious. The more aghast glances she drew, the more she feared that their hammers would strike a misplaced thumb or forefinger, and she was determined not to be responsible for any more injuries to Inquisition forces. That fear was momentarily cast aside however, as Lark followed Harritt into the adjoining cabin, a small space filled with wooden tables laden with half finished designs, a number of scattered schematics and books, practically spilling full with ink pots and quills and a lantern or two. It was a working space, messy yet comfortable and the slightly low ceiling meant that the room filled with warmth quickly.

“I have your armour here. The Seeker gave me your measurements earlier this week but I need to see whether it needs reshaping.” He handed her a small leather bundle to a confused Lark.

“Wait, Cassandra gave you my measurements? How did she…?” She stopped herself when she realised she would rather not learn how the Seeker had ascertained them.

“I’ll leave you try them.”

She emerged from the cabin a few minutes later, clad in her surprisingly well-fitted suit, now even more certain that she did not want to learn how Cassandra had got hold of such extremely accurate measurements. The armour itself was crafted from brown bear hide, supple and studded with iron across the breastplate that sat tightly over a simple, pale chemise, and with a collar laced with ram’s wool that tickled the slope of her jaw. The boots were long, inlaid with iron at the seams and laced up to the thigh, and as she stretched her muscles they stretched well with her and allowed her to slip silently across the snow-covered ground. A matching, hooded travel cloak that was lined with thick fennec fur and cinched at the waist by a slim, leather belt clasped with the golden sigil of the Inquisition, was now draped across her shoulders. She felt soft and warm wrapped in it, yet powerful all the same and as she reached for her hilt at her belt, ready for a fight.

“Looks to be a good fit. How does it feel on you?” Harritt asked, sizing her up as she approached. His dark eyes squinted in the sunlight as he did, wrinkles creasing at the edges.

“Good, it’s flexible for a leather. I’ve never worn armour like this before.” As she spoke, she extended out her gloved arm and called the blade to her and swept it through the air in a slow arc, enjoying the feel of the movement as she cut through the cold air. She noticed out of the corner of her eye that the smith’s eyes had widened slightly and the muscles of his neck had tensed distinctly as she did so.

“That’s the idea.” His words were stiffer now as he fixed his eyes on tip of the blade, watching the light shimmer across it as it moved. As she took a step towards him, Harritt appeared to struggle not to step back.

_He’s afraid._

“Thank you, Harritt. The armour is wonderful, I don’t think it needs any adjustments.”

Harritt let out a short grunt of affirmation. “There’s a spare set for you marked for tomorrow’s caravan. If there’s anything else you need, come find me later.” Yet, the haste with which he retreated into the forge coupled with the narrow-eyed glances served to undermine the sentiment. In a matter of moments, he had begun shouting orders to his apprentices again.

Lark found herself alone once more, watching the snow swirl around her and feeling the cold gnawing away at her heart.

“You are ready, I take it?”

She turned to see the Commander standing before her, his eyes discerning beneath a furrowed brow and scanning distinctly lower than she had imagined the man capable of.

“Yes, as I think you’ve noticed,” Lark replied, raising an eyebrow. The Commander’s eyes widened as he realised his error and made a great effort of averting his gaze, reaching up to rub his neck awkwardly while doing so.

“I am sorry, Herald. I did not intend to-”

“Don’t worry, Commander. Master Harritt’s work does deserve admiration, I’ll be the first to admit.” They stood in an uncomfortable silence for a time, Lark considering the Commander while he continued to look anywhere but at her.  It was Lark that broke the silence first. “So, are we still going to spar or…?”

“Yes, of course. Follow me and we shall begin.”

 

…

 

The Commander fought differently to the Seeker and spoke little as he did so. His swings were more powerful but he fought conservatively, never wasting energy and always falling back into the same defensive position when Lark pressed him. Though he had forsaken a shield for their bout, Lark could tell he was used to one in hand by the way he angled his body when he lunged. He wasn’t quite as impressive to watch as the Seeker, but with the sunlight caught in his golden hair, the glint of his dark armour and as his mantle billowed out behind him in the wind, he looked every inch the warrior.

He proved an intriguingly quiet sparring partner, a little like Solas, saying little other than to recommend a change in stance or foot position. Despite the extreme exertion of their bout, never appeared particularly out of breath or flushed. The Commander took more time to glare and call out his unsubtly distracted recruits who drilled half-heartedly a few metres away. Lark had grown accustomed to their glances in the previous days, she had even begun to find it a little funny when she caught sight of their unabashedly agape mouths and wide eyes or heard their fervent mutterings when she performed a particularly elegant parry.

“You know, I imagine no matter how many times you tell them, they won’t stop gawking.”

“Perhaps.” They had paused to drink from their waterskins and now stood apart from one another, leaning against the village wall as they watched the other soldiers practise. They sat in silence for a while, the breeze lifting the sounds of the clash of steel and the intermittent yells of the recruits as they fought and cursed and laughed together.

Lark stretched out her arms and legs before the cold could seep in and stiffen them. Winters in the Free Marches had always been harsh in their bite, cold enough to crack the aravels’ wheels and freeze off entire limbs from frostbite if you were not careful to prepare for the storms but those days only lasted a little while, only a week or so in the deepest, darkest days of Wintersmarch. But here, the cold never ended, even under the bright, watchful gaze of the summer sun and Lark found that if she stayed still too long, she would begin to feel the cold gnaw away at her, at her muscles and bones until she feared there would be nothing left of her body but ice. Varric too found the mountain air biting and from what she could tell, Ambassador Montilyet never strayed too far from an open hearth, yet the others seemed to have grown accustomed. Particularly Solas who, apparently disregarding all sense, appeared to wander barefoot through the village and into the hills. The very thought made her shiver.

As if reading her mind, it was the Commander that broke their quiet. “So, have you grown accustomed to the weather here? Is it different from where you come from?”

Lark considered the question for a moment and began laughing, despite herself, while the Commander only stared at her quizzically. “Are you really asking me about the weather, Commander?”

To her surprise, the corner of the Commander’s lip curled into a crooked smile. “Yes, I guess I am. I was always told that was an important first part of small talk.”

“The Dalish aren’t particularly keen on small talk, so I wouldn’t know.”

“So, what would be your people’s way of alleviating awkward silences, then?” _Your people._ It sounded strange to hear, somehow stranger coming from him.

“Awkward, huh?”

“I just meant that, I was afraid that I was being rude…again. And I did not want to continue to be.”

Lark considered his words for a moment, slowly understanding the gravity of them. “I imagine the Dalish alternative would be making new acquaintances, though we don’t seem to have that luxury here.” She had not meant to be as cutting as her words proceeded to be, but she did not regret his downcast eyes.

“Herald, I wanted to apologise sincerely for my words in the Chantry office. They were unfounded and I…”

“It is not your words that concern me, Knight Captain.” She had heard the other recruits use the moniker in conversation over dinner and from their hushed voices she was easily able to discern that it wasn’t a name that the Commander wanted to be used in his company. She had not forgotten the feeling of utter helplessness he had made her feel, had not forgotten the fear in his eyes as he had forced her back from the Seeker. And she was angry.

“That is no longer my title.” His voice had grown lower, his tone darker.

“It doesn’t need to be your title for you to remain a templar, ser.”

“I am not…”

“Shall we continue?” Lark took one last gulp of water before throwing her empty waterskin into the snow.  “Or are we to stand here all day?”

The Commander gritted his teeth but to his credit, followed Lark’s lead quietly, taking up his sword once more. Lark felt resentment rise in her throat as she realised he was only sparring half-heartedly. Lark took the chance to hack away at his defence and pushed him back across the ice, yet he didn’t rise to her bait. Lark could feel her frustrations rising in her throat like bile.

“You’re holding back on me.”

“We are only here to practise, I would rather not injure you before you set out tomorrow.”

Lark felt her gut twist at the comment. “If I am to face other templars in the Hinterlands, then I should be prepared for the full extent of their capability. Otherwise, what’s the point of sparring at all? A chance for you to be patronising?” The Commander bristled and Lark couldn’t help but smile, but to her frustration he lowered his weapon.

“I am sorry, Herald. I would appear to be of no use to you then.” The Commander sheathed his weapon before inclining his head. “I am sorry to have wasted your time, I will return to my recruits, Herald. Perhaps I will be of more use to them.”

Lark was not willing to let him get away that easily. It was instinct that called the spark to her fingertips, twisting lightning up her arm like sprouting vine. She could feel it there, like the trace of cool kisses across her limbs. When she had first begun sparring with the apostate, Solas had been surprised that she wielded without a staff, had called her primitive for it. She had enjoyed his startled gaze when she had called lightning down upon his head in response.

“I imagine you could still be of some use here, Knight Captain.”

The Commander turned, wide-eyed and aghast, appearing to mimic the gazes of his recruits at his back. His gaze darkened quickly as his understanding of the challenge posed to him grew. They stood like that for a moment, Lark crackling with violet lightning and the Commander considering her with fire in his eyes and a solemn grip upon his sword’s pommel.

“Ser Lysette, if you would lend me your shield.” He called back to a woman in templar gear, leading a group of recruits in drills. Her approach was swift, and she was at the Commander’s side in an instant. Lark had seen the raven-haired woman around the village, glimpsed her drinking with other soldiers in the tavern, always garbed in polished templar steel. The recruits liked her, she was talkative and bright-eyed and Lark remembered seeing her with her head thrown back in shining laughter many a time, caught in the light of the open hearth. Now however, she glowered at the young elf, hesitant in the face of her magic. As she handed over the shield to the Commander, Lark noticed that the woman’s gloved hand lingered over his forearm, squeezing it slightly as if in reassurance. She whispered something under her breath to him before backing off. Was there a longing, beyond simple concern in her glance? Lark could not be sure.

“Are you ready, ser?” The wind had grown harsher around them, the bite of the snows swirling across their path. Lark could feel her cloak billowing out behind her as she watched him.

 “As you are, Herald.”

The words were not yet quite out of the Commander’s mouth before Lark hurled an arc of lightning through the air, narrowly grazing the Commander’s side. The man did not wait to retaliate.

The fight was harder than Lark had expected. The Commander pushed against her will more fiercely than he done in pitched combat, he hacked and slashed and deflected with an unparalleled ease, sending the bolts of Lark’s magic ricocheting across the thick ice beneath them, melting the fine covering of snow. Lark for her part, enjoyed feeling powerful, enjoyed wrapping herself in a veil of protective fire and hurling all she had towards the templar Commander. She forged storm clouds across the sky, felt sparks lick through her veins as she found her limbs light and her feet quick. The Commander held fast to his position, a true soldier in arms but he fought hard and proudly, his blows and parries now elegant. Lark was surprised he did not reach out to dampen her magic and she intended to push him to the limits of his resolve, to press him to it, to confirm his character as she had always presumed it.

“I would have thought you’d have pressed me harder by now?” The Commander knew to what she was referring, she was certain. She could see his understanding in his dark eyes, and he hesitated before answering.

“We are to fight fairly, are we not?”

“Hmmm.” Lark felt the bitterness rise again, crawling up her throat, choking her. She felt the spark falter for a moment at his words, but then she shook herself and drew up her strength, hurled a barrage of lightning at his head, enough that he had to roll to avoid its path. “Would you call that fair?” Her words were striking and sharp, caught in the wind.

The crowd of gawking villagers and recruits now stared openly, gathered once more at the village gates. Out of the corner of her eye, Lark saw the glint and chink of money changing hands. _Varric’s doing, no doubt._ Different to the days previously, however, Chantry clerics dressed in their fine white and red linen robes numbered amongst the crowd and at their centre, the little man Lark had grown to revile; Chancellor Roderick. They clucked together like hens and glared disapprovingly at the display, their black, piggish, accusing eyes glinting menacingly out of lined faces.

With Lark momentarily distracted, the Commander took his chance. His shield angled downwards, he charged towards her, sword caught in the light of the sun. Lark was ready. Rubbing her hands together, she forged a bolt of white light between her fingertips and hurled it at his feet.

She had hoped to trip him, to send their esteemed Commander sprawling across the ice and send laughter rippling through the ranks. Instead, the bolt slipped between the Commander’s boots and sent a resounding crack through the thick ice of the lake beneath their feet. Before Lark could stop it, she felt the ice under her boots shatter with a ringing crack that echoed in the empty air, and she and the Commander were plunged into the freezing darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the slight hiatus for those of you lovely people who are reading. It's been exam season here in Scotland so have been busy revising. 
> 
> Thank you to all those who read this! I appreciate you dearly!


	7. Idle Beauty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On their journey to the Hinterlands, allies find themselves at odds.

With her tangled, deep-red curls spilling out behind her, the silhouette of her billowing fur-cloak in the mountain breeze and the graceful arched neck of her pale silver mare, Varric thought that Lark looked every inch the hero out of a bard’s song. The thought concerned him, knowing what he did of the frequent fate of heroes, and the weight of that mantle appeared in the slump of the young elf’s shoulders and hint of shadow beneath her eyes. Though he did have to admit that the faint bluish tint of her lips and the slight shake of her limbs left over from her unexpected dip in the ice did undercut the majesty of her stride.

Seeing the Herald and her golden-haired Commander tumble into the lake had not been what either the dwarf or any of the other gawking onlookers had expected in the days previously and Varric remembered the swift and sharp cries for help in the aftermath. It had certainly rendered several sets of purse-strings unexpectedly lighter, given that most who had chosen to bet on their esteemed leaders’ bout had not banked on each taking the other out. Varric had only chuckled to himself as he clutched a few extra gold pieces between his fingers, his initial fears and tinge of guilt quelled when they had both been dragged safely back onto dry land, heaved out of the darkness through a mix of magic and brute strength. His grin had only grown wider when Chuckles, himself, had reluctantly handed over a little of his own money, the elf’s teeth gritted, brow furrowed and the tips of his ears red with resentment. The dwarf had found it interesting that the elf, previously so clearly taken with their young saviour, had placed his bets on the Commander’s victory that afternoon. The man’s quick, glinting, furtive glances across the tavern between warm gulps of golden mead and caught on the edge of the girl’s faint, tinkling laughter seemed to be for naught. Varric was certain Lark would not be particularly enamoured with Solas’ evident lack of faith, given the obvious trust she had placed in him between their sparring bouts and her confidence in his faith. He was also certain the older elf would not want to be the target of the Herald’s hot-blooded fury if she were to find out, a fury the Commander was now well-versed in.

Solas now rode near the head of the caravan astride a large, jet-black mount, just a little behind the Seeker and the Herald. From the angle at which he rode, Varric could spot the red glint of the dying sun shining off the apostate’s bald head, a perfect target for hastily made projectiles he had mused. Yet the thought had only sent him lamenting the passing of his younger, more immature years, a time at which he would have taken advantage of those musings. And as he allowed his thoughts to stray towards the past, he lamented the absence of missing friends, of the associates he had left behind in Kirkwall. Of Hawke most of all. When he closed his eyes, he could picture his friend clearly, his black, straggled curls, his roaring guffaw and the glint of his knowing smile. And the blood streaked across his face in battle, the flames at his back, his knives curled across his chest. 

He could imagine his friend dead very clearly too. 

The sharp clatter of the wagons at his side brought him out of his mused trance. The supplies, choking with boxes of linens and weapons and other materials, jostled together loudly as they rode through the mountain roads, disturbed by even the slightest of bumps along the rocky terrain. The way had proved tepidly treacherous over the two days they’d spent riding south towards the foot of the Frostbacks. Rocks fell away underfoot and skittered down the mountainside, the icy bite of the mountain breeze proved cutting against bare skin and stray fingertips, and Varric half-expected to see a stray mountain lion tearing through the underbrush and into their path any second now. Out of the corner of his eye, he could have sworn he had seen the gleam of a golden coat on lowered haunches stalking between the peaks, sizing up its dwarven dinner. Every second under the blood-baked sunset he knew to be another minute open to their strikes, yet night surely would only prove worse. He could already imagine it, the gleaming glances of a hundred golden eyes in the shadows, watching him. The thought made him shudder and thankful for the anchoring sway of the horse beneath him. 

“Are you alright, Master Tethras?” Lost in thought, Varric had not noticed the solemn elf slow to fall into stride beside him, the apostate’s dark eyes alight under the gaze of the red sun.

“Doing just fine, Chuckles. Thinking of all the ways we might die on this mountainside. So far, I’ve got seven, but I’m open to all suggestions.” Varric thought he heard the sound of a recruit sniggering under her breath behind him, and felt his grin grow wider and a little warmth take hold in his heart.

“I imagine the cold would take precedent among that number?”

“Says the man who walks through Haven barefoot.” The Herald’s light lilting voice carried clearly in the wind, straight to the back of the caravan. Varric enjoyed the sound of it, it’s melodic rise and fall, though she appeared to use it rarely in other’s company, choosing to listen instead. He had only caught glimpses of the young elf’s true nature in conversation, fleeting snatches of dry wit and intellect that had proved reassuring, a fleeting glimpse of home and missing friends. 

“Contrary to what Varric may have you believe, I am capable of empathy.”

Lark did not turn to reply, instead only urging her horse onwards, but Varric imagined a wry smile appearing on her face at the elf’s words. 

“Don’t worry, Chuckles. We’ll get you back in her good graces soon enough.”

The elf turned in his saddle to look at him quizzically. “I don’t know what you mean? I would imagine our acquaintance with the Herald is mutually adequate, on both our parts. I wouldn’t think a debate of frostbite would be a source of ruin, do you?” There was a twinkle in his dark eye as he scoffed, a glimpse of the arrogance beneath the surface Varric had begun to scratch.

“I just thought you wouldn’t want our esteemed leader to think of you as absent of feeling, given you seem so preoccupied with hers.” 

The elf pursed his lips. “I’m not sure to what you are referring?”

“You just keep telling yourself that, Chuckles.” Solas’ eyes narrowed, contemplating Varric’s words before widening ever so slightly in realisation, and his mouth curled into a quiet chuckle. 

“I am glad, that any character traits you find me in deficit of you will kindly invent for me, Varric.” His tone was dismissive but Varric took care to notice that the elf had lowered his voice and slowed the pace of his mount, as if to fall further out of the Herald’s earshot. The dwarf enjoyed watching the stoic mage squirm like this, seeing his calm demeaner shake slightly. It was something he’d grown good at over the years he had spent in Kirkwall, drawing the truth out of reluctant characters and surly dispositions.

“It’s alright, she won’t learn it from me. I imagine the sentiment will become clear soon enough with all those doe-eyed looks you send her way.” It was an exaggeration, Varric knew, and he couldn’t help but grin as he teased the man and watched the apostate tighten under his gaze, the crease of his furrowed brow sharpening. When he considered what he had seen honestly, he wasn’t even sure if it was desire that he had seen sparking in the apostate’s eyes during all those nights in the tavern or whether it was the storyteller within him spinning tales for his own amusement. Perhaps it was merely the warm glimmer of firelight veiling those that basked in it, feigning desire.

“Spreading falsity does you no credit, child of the stone.” The elf’s words had become curt and sharp, as sharp as the ice wind that cut across their path. Now, Varric was certain that he was right in his assumptions, the elf’s short-tempered glare proving the verity of his words. But Varric knew better than to push him, knew that to poke a sleeping bear was to put yourself at the mercy of its claws. And the look in the apostate’s eye indicated a particularly sharp set at his disposal. 

“I’m sorry, Chuckles. I didn’t mean to insult you.” 

“It is fine, Varric. The only insult would be to spread this lie further. I would not want you to make the Herald uncomfortable through salacious rumour and gossip.”

“I thought that was what I was here for. The more salacious the better, after all,” Varric chuckled, punctuating his words with a sly wink, and grinned beside himself when the elf curled his lip and spurred his horse forward, clearly seeking an end to their conversation. Varric’s chuckle only grew louder as he watched the red sunlight bounce off the bald elf’s shiny head once more, now even more tempted to aim a projectile at the target.

…

Upon meeting the man, Solas had been unsure what to make of the stocky, foul-mouthed, dwarven storyteller who seemed to cling to the edges of their party. Now he was certain.

As he sat fixed in his saddle, he felt the faint touch of that red-burnished rage he had become acutely familiar with reach up and tinge his insides, curling in shadowed places and twisting in his mind. The insolence of it, the arrogance. The dwarf claimed to know his mind, yet only insulted his intelligence in doing so. What did a Child of the Stone know of him, what could he? A man of a race that barely represented the severed limb of a once great beast, torn and mutilated beyond recognition of it had once been.

The elf found himself seething in place, using the full muster of his will to keep his features still and straight. He was aware of the caravan and troops around him, the young recruits chattering away insipidly about things of little consequence. The Seeker rode directly ahead, the glint of her armour reflecting the colour of the blood red sunset. It made their leader look as though she had just stepped from battle, dripping in the blood of foes and practically still ringing from the memory of the clash of steel. The image had given him reason to pause in the weeks since their meeting, allowing for a faintly familiar tinge of fear to creep into his heart, one he had thought only languished in days long forgotten. 

Now, after days at the mercy of her black gaze and quivering sword arm, he was not so sure.

The Herald rode a slight distance from her, ever so slightly apart from the rest of the troops. Whether the Inquisition forces gave her a wide birth out of reverence or fear, the apostate was not sure. He imagined it did not matter, the sentiments being one and the same. To revere a messiah was as much to fear their power as to be in awe of it, he knew.  
He had known for a long time.

He found that as Varric’s words echoed in the elf’s mind, his gaze lingered on the girl’s silhouette, black against the dying sun. He considered her there and found him stifling a guffaw at the thought of his supposed infatuation.

The girl was young, competent if not exceptional in battle and pre-disposed to leaving chaos in her wake, a trait Solas admired and one that left him chuckling more often than not. The older elf couldn’t help but admit she was faintly pretty, shown in the glint of her youth, in the faint shimmer of her skin in the dappled sunlight and in the flutter of her amber eyes, but nothing to gawk at, the subject of only passing fancies rather than passion he would have thought. Besides, he did not find himself as particularly enamoured with her supposed divinity as others did, he did not share the Seeker’s misted eyes or the unsubtle staring of the recruits, still little more than a handful of young farm-hands and shopworkers. 

Ultimately, Solas had seen enough wonders in his life to know she was not one of them. 

However, he did find himself admitting that there was a semblance of intellect reflected in her bright gaze but her crude, Dalish vallaslin only served to diminish it. The Dalish had never produced anything of consequence, confined to their simple barbarity, traipsing through forests clad in mud and ignorance of their true circumstance. And the girl was wise to speak little of her origin, he knew. He was certain that he was not the only one to hold these opinions of the elven nomads.

The sword was another matter. The art itself was beautiful to behold but she wielded it carelessly, clearly ignorant of the power which she held, the ancient legacy that passed through her fingertips. Each time he saw her stumble, each time he watched the Seeker best her and the sword fall and clatter back into oblivion he would feel his teeth clench and a twinge in his heart. Centuries, millennia of history and this was it had come to? A fumbling teenager all that remained of elven memory, now tied to the very institution that corrupted them. The thought left him stricken.

Perhaps there was a glimmer of hope there, he thought, she had proved a useful ally in his current predicament, a means to legitimise his presence amongst the Inquisition’s number. The Seeker had been much more amenable to him in the days following their assault on the Breach, much more willing to accept an elf in their number when he was not alone, no longer was he simply a questionable, unfamiliar apostate in their party. Her trust in him guaranteed his position there, his safety. 

He thought of the dwarf’s words once more, trying to picture his supposed infatuation but couldn’t imagine himself reduced to something so foolish. In his younger days, perhaps. He had loved then, had loved miracles made mortal flesh but now he had grown tired of such trivial desires. Idle beauty was of little use to him now, not with what he had planned ahead. A pair of amber eyes could do little to change that, no matter how bright.

Yes. He was certain the dwarf had been wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all those that continue to read and give up their time for this story. You are dearly appeciated! 
> 
> Apologies again for the hiatus, have finally finished exam season thankfully and am now in the throws of summer employment. Should be publishing more regularly from now (she says hesitantly)!
> 
> Again, all comments, thoughts and tips on writing style are welcome!


	8. Faith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Questions abound in the face of encroaching terror

The world around their small band of soldiers and storytellers changed dramatically over the next few days. Having reached the foot of the Frostbacks, their small caravan had spent four days trekking through the wilds of the Ferelden countryside, through wooded, tumbling foothills and lowland marshes caked in mud and caught in monstrous, clawing undergrowth that proved fatal to their wagons’ wheels. They were delayed twice when three separate spokes cracked and loosened their axels, almost tipping their meagre supply train into a ditch. It took the effort of three recruits, two hours of work and a tweak of Lark’s handiwork to fix it.

Kneeling at the wagon’s side, Lark found that she enjoyed working with her hands. She felt useful, a usefulness beyond the questionable status of her divinity, as she tightened screws and tempered rusted iron with a hint of flame between her calloused fingertips. As she did so, memories of hours of lying beneath the splintered, wooden underbelly of the clan’s broken aravel filled her mind, memories she had thought long forgotten, lost amongst the terror of the few weeks of her life. A rare pleasant memory of her childhood she realised. Very rare, indeed.

Once they had finished, their band moved on quickly with the Seeker increasingly eager to make up for lost time. Every so often a missive driven on raven wings would land upon the Seeker’s shoulder and turn the woman’s gaze dark. Word of things to come, Lark knew. Of miseries that were yet to strike, Varric had suggested. It boded ill.

Soon, as the road grew wider and they drew nearer to the Crossroads, the landscape evolved, slowly changing from ever-expanding wilds to more uniform farmland, surrounding them with the golden shimmer of wheat fields and tall, thick brown grasses that rose above their heads and drifted absent-mindedly in the wind. There was little trace of civilisation, a glimmer here and there in lonely farmhouses and in the rumbling of cattle, branded and watchful. No people though, Lark noticed, and eerily quiet. Lark had been concerned that she and the rest of their number would be met with prying eyes on their journey, the eyes of the Faithful clamouring for a peek at this new power but now she realised she needn’t have worried. The only eyes that followed them were the farm animals, the black, beady gaze of heavy-woollen sheep or a stray, curve-horned goat or two. Perhaps, the only real onlooker was Andraste Herself, bright-eyed and expectant in the skies above.

Yet soon, the world changed again, the signs of the encroaching war growing more frequent and increasingly disturbing. Two days out from their arrival, a scout caught sight of a pillar of black smoke rising in the wind up ahead, curling into the deep oblivion of the sky above like a hand reaching up to grasp the heavens. As they drew nearer, the smoke began to eat away at them, filling their noses and throats to burst and stinging their eyes with the smell of burnt wood and, what Lark soon realised to be, burnt flesh. Eventually they found the source: an empty, nameless village that had been reduced to little more than smoking rubble. The thatch of the hut roofs had been set alight and had caved in, leaving many of the buildings little more than a hollow, charred frame of what they had once been. Carts had been upturned and ransacked, heavy grains spilling out across the cracked earth while the small waterwheel had been ripped from its hinges and lay cracked and sodden in the nearby stream. Livestock lay slaughtered in the village square, the bitter tang of old, dried blood dark against cracked flagstone. A small pack of rabid strays had taken refuge in their carcasses, having already picked them clean, and began to snarl upon the group’s approach. When one looked poised to attack, glowering on lowered skeletal haunches, Cassandra and Varric were forced to put them down. The crunch of the dwarf’s bolt meeting the hound’s skull left one of the recruits retching in the stream.

No people though, dead or otherwise. There were signs of a panic, of a hastily made escape in the dark of night. Hastily packed sacks left abandoned, the heavy imprint of thundering hoof prints in the dirt. All signs pointed to a bandit raid. No horses remained amongst the dead animals, and the place had been picked clean of valuables and supplies, the only thing left for their party to claim was a small, untouched box of linen bandages tucked away in a forgotten corner.

Though the village presented some semblance of shelter, many of the recruits were reluctant to stay there for long, let alone overnight and Lark counted herself among them. The wreckage stunk of death and despair, a graveyard of a life once lived in peace now corrupted and festering in wartime. Even the Seeker looked disturbed by what she saw. Varric, for once, remained staunchly silent in the face of it all, his complexion pale beneath the sheen of his stubble. Solas remained out on the road keeping watch as they moved through the wreckage, lacking any desire to bear witness to such carnage. Each one knew that this would hardly be the end of it all.

A similar pattern unfolded as they moved on. Signs of bandits and thieves littered the side of the road and the surrounding countryside. Fields became ashen and unkempt, some had been set alight and still burned a crudely potent red under the violet-clouded sky, signs of an approaching summer thunder storm on the sharp horizon. More livestock lay dead too, caked in dust and blood and in varying stages of decay, limbs strewn and eyes still wide with terror. The smell doused their lungs and clung to their pores, leaving Lark drowning in the stench and the dust and the heat of the sun and the sweat that tinged her limbs.

It was then that they began to find the bodies.

Most were lightly garbed, farmers most likely, face down in the dirt as if they had been killed while fleeing. Arrows punctured backs, packs lay open and their contents lay strewn out beside them, blood had trailed from them and was now crusted in their hair and across the dirt. They had been like that for a while, based on the flies that now descended upon them, swarming their limp, lifeless forms. Lark was thankful that she could not see their faces. She could already imagine what she would see.

This was the world now, she knew. Or perhaps this what it had always been only she had never seen it up close. She had known death young, had known clan members who had died in battle or at the hands of human settlers, had known death most acutely when her mother had disappeared all those years ago in the heavy snows of Wintersend after all her years of suffering but she had never seen it like this, had never seen bodies like this. Still gripped in the heat of violence, lying where they had fallen, unburied and broken things tinged with terror and tears.

The other soldiers seemed to be of a similar mind. One of the youngest, a boy barely seventeen, broke down at the road side at the sight, his tears masked by the glint of his helm. Another was reduced to retching once more, the smell of decay too much for him. One of the women, the former farmhand Matilde, suggested they should bury them, at least as many as they could before sundown, give them their last rites at the very least. The Seeker, usually so stoic, had turned slightly pale the further they had walked. She allowed them to perform the rites, but suggested they burn the bodies instead to deter the demons that had begun to infest the world around them.

It took them much of the afternoon to gather and lug the dead to a hastily made pyre at the centre of a bare and sullen, dirt field, and finally as the sun was beginning to set they set it alight, sending a thick pillar of black smoke into the red-blooded sky. Matilde muttered some of the old Chant words she knew from her youth, as the darkness veiled them and they concluded their solemn vigil in dimly star-lit silence. Despite her better judgement, Lark found herself muttering a little of the elven rites she knew from her own childhood, the quiet words of burial and mourning and remembrance that she had thought alluded her. It was a small comfort but a comfort none the less to taste something familiar upon her tongue.

Lark knew now that this was the world still to come too.

As the pyre burned out, they made their way another half mile down the road and set up camp for the night in a small, natural alcove in the hillside, partly obscured by woodland and sheltered from the wind. The Seeker insisted on taking first watch, giving the recruits much needed respite from the day’s events. Most piled into their tents quickly so that by the time Lark found herself curled up next to the campfire, a light cacophony of heavy breathing and stray snoring filled the surrounding air, mixing with the subtle croak of the crickets. She figured, as she sat there drinking in the golden heat of the flames, that many of them lay awake thinking of what they had seen that day, unable to cast the images from their mind while the taste of ash and soot still clung to their insides.

Lark found that the firelight was a more tempting prospect than lying in her thin bed roll in the deep darkness and failing to sleep. She didn’t dare imagine what the nightmares would appear like now, now that she had seen what she had seen.

Instead she lay on her side with her head propped on her hand and read from one of the thick, leather bound tomes beside her – a gift from the Ambassador. Late one afternoon in the week leading up to their expedition, Lark had found herself in the woman’s brightly coloured and strikingly well-decorated office in the Chantry to be interrogated on her life with the Dalish, her education and origins until she was red in the face from answering again and again that there was little to tell. After that, she had been found to have a knowledge of history and politics and language that was severely lacking, Ambassador Montilyet had assigned her homework. If she was to represent the Inquisition, the woman said, she would need to know the world around her, the people and nobility she would encounter, the culture and secrets of those that could both aid and antagonise.

The section she now scanned was a detailed account of the history of succession in the Orlesian Empire, the twists and turns of dynasty and frivolity. The writing was long-winded and at times difficult to discern and some of the language suffered from evidently poor translations but she strangely found herself enjoying the process, feeling the words run along her tongue and through her mind before taking root in newly-lit crevices and crannies. And it was better this than thoughts of days past, of violence and blood and the glaring gaze of a death-soaked sun.

The hearth’s flame cast light across her downturned eyes, each flutter of her lashes as she scanned a new line casting another shadow, dancing along the groves of her skin. It was only when someone stood before her, blocking out the light that she noticed the Seeker. She was no longer garbed in her armour, Lark imagined it probably sat polished and clean in her tent. Instead the women had changed into slim slacks and a loose shirt. It was strange seeing the Seeker so informal, Lark had become acutely accustomed to the rigidity of the woman. Solid, stoic, a foundation on which great things were built. Perhaps it was not all gone however, it was still the same gleam in her dark eyes.

“May I sit?”

Lark nodded but didn’t answer, her mouth suddenly dry. She could taste the encroaching thunder in the air, the dry heat of the dark clouds and light sparking promise of lightning to come. It would rain soon she knew. It might even pour.

“How was your watch?” Lark asked, closing her book.

“Uneventful. The road is surprisingly quiet for all the carnage we saw out there.”

Lark knew the Seeker was right. Her clan had faced bandits in the forests; they never strayed far from their base so she knew that they must be waiting for them up ahead. Seeking new victims to terrorise and more supplies to take. The thought was not pleasant.

“I take it you received word from the Commander, then?” The Seeker’s question was abrupt and made Lark grimace.

She remembered the missive that had arrived for her three days into their journey, tied to the foot of a particularly fat raven that had weighed heavily upon her arm. The letter had been short, the words stiff and restrained as if the man had been reluctant to write it. Lark could easily imagine the man at the mercy of the Nightingale’s haughty gaze as she dictated it to him. It had said only that he was awake and well after the incident back at Haven and that he did not hold it against her given he knew it to have been an accident.

That was the first lie.

The Commander had then commended her, insisting despite it all that she had proved herself an enjoyable sparring partner and a figure deserving of renown.

The second lie.

He had then wished her safe travels and signed it with a small flourish, an uncharacteristic extravagance of the man Lark thought she had come to understand. Lark could only imagine how hard it had been for him to do so after what she had done, what the humiliation must have done to his honour, the honour he carried across his back and reflected in the glint of his carved helm and polished steel. She had meant to go to him to apologise before they had set out but he had remained unconscious until their departure and Cassandra had been determined not to be held up. After Adan had assured her that the Commander would wake up after a few days of rest she had reluctantly been led out into the mountains, her apology caught in her lungs and throat – never spoken. She tasted the bitterness in her throat once more, but this time it tasted of guilt.

“Yes, I did. He said he is well, after…everything.” Lark might have been wrong, but out of the corner of her eye, caught in the firelight, she thought she saw the Seeker stifle a slight smile. The slight curl of her full lip caught the light in its shine.

“That is good. I imagined he would be. The man is resilient.” The Seeker’s tone was matter-of-fact, certain in her words. _She knows him well then_ , Lark thought, _well enough to know his character._ There was a look too, something tinging the darkness of the Seeker’s eyes. Was it pity? A knowing of things lost past.

“Have you known the Commander long?” Lark asked.

“Through reputation for some years, yes, but I first met him in person little over a year ago in Kirkwall during the troubles there. He was always a novelty in the order, recruited at an age older than most, and has been known amongst the Seekers for at least ten years since the fall of the Kinloch Circle.” She lingered over the last words, letting the sounds hang in the air for a moment, a melancholy about them. An old tragedy come back to linger on the lips of the living.

Lark knew of the Circles, knew the worst of them. Mages imprisoned in darkness, guarded by shadow-helmed beasts of men and forced to live in constant terror. The threat of them had always been what the other children had whispered amongst themselves to strike fear into the magically apt amongst them, tales of human fear intertwined with their own lore. As she had grown, the stories evolved from childish terrors to adult ones, of Templars taking liberties with their charges, of the Harrowing and all it’s destruction and the Tranquil, those poor souls stripped of all that they were for merely looking at a man the wrong way. Those were the templars she knew, who she had caused so much suffering and misery. To think of the memory left her stricken.

“I came to know him more after the explosion at the Kirkwall Chantry, the start of the war. We met a number of times during his attempts to lead the reconstruction efforts in the city. He was the one who helped me track down the dwarf the second time.”

“The second time…?”

Cassandra let out an exasperated noise, one Lark had learned to associate with the Seeker and the Storyteller’s fraught relationship. It was a rasping groan, one that echoed of aching pains and twitches, of annoyances and turbulence. It was a sound that made Lark smile for its familiarity and knowing what she did of the dwarf, she was certain it made him smile too to know that the Seeker found him ever so frustrating.

“I sought the Champion of Kirkwall in the aftermath of the chaos, someone to the relay news of the conflict and what could be done about it to the Divine but found only loose ends and tales of missing associates left in the wake of his disappearance. Varric was the only one of his friends to be known to remain in the city but when I initially tracked him down, he proved unwilling to answer questions and fled into the night. It was Cullen who helped me track him down and apprehend him. He knew the dwarf’s old haunts from word on the streets and was able to lend me a small force to do it.” She paused for a moment, no doubt lost in the memory of it, a grimace contorting her mouth as she must have imagined the thought of wrangling the man.

“What was that what made you choose him to be the Inquisition’s Commander?”

“He was regarded as a great man amongst his men, competent in battle and in command. And despite all the world has done to him, he is still a man of faith. That was the kind of man we were certain we needed, the kind of man the Divine would have sought in her writ.” Lark felt the Seeker’s eyes upon her as she said this, considering her. “Trust me, you will come to know those qualities too. He is dedicated to the Inquisition as much as I, as much you.”

Lark was unsure how truly dedicated she was and even more unsure how close she and the Commander would ever become. She was unsure if he was even a man she wished to know, a templar, a villain in lion skin. He had probably spent his years tormenting young mages just as the others had, just as _they_ had.

“I realise now that I never did ask you of your faith, Herald.” The Seeker’s eyes were now fixed more intently upon her. “I only assumed you possessed some semblance of it. If I am to understand correctly, the Dalish follow their own pantheon?”

“There are nine gods that Dalish tradition reveres,” Lark replied, her eyes downcast and casting deep shadows across the slopes of her cheeks. “Mythal was the most revered amongst my own clan. This is her vallaslin, the ‘blood-writing’ to honour her love.” Lark tilted her chin, allowing the firelight to catch the glimmer of the white markings. It gleamed golden, elegant in its beauty as it framed her bright eyes. “My Keeper was devout, said prayers each day, drank and ate in their name, brought up the little ones to revere them and chastised them with the threat of the Dread Wolf. But I never followed or paid them much mind, it was never in me to revere that which I could not see or use.”

There was more to it than that, but Lark would not say it aloud. Feelings she had swallowed in her youth and had little desire to choke on now.

“And what of the Maker? Andraste? How do They appear to the elves, an affront to your own or do they co-exist?” The Seeker’s eyes were bright and expectant, rooting for something, a desired answer that the woman did little to mask.

“My grandmother said they were no great challenge to the gods, it was the men of the Maker that posed to the true threat to us. Besides, I never had much reason to question His existence in my lifetime. It was not mine to know.”

_Lie_. Lark knew it to be so but she did not admit it. She had had many reasons to consider such a prospect, lying on her back in the dead of night wandering how her life had come to this, wondering which power was responsible for the ways of the world. The elven gods had been silent. So, had this Maker the shems adored so fervently. Their absence was marked. An absence as hollow as the wind in the trees, rustling and whispering but ultimately empty air.

“And what now? Surely you have had reason to reconsider?”

“I don’t know.”

This was clearly not the answer the Seeker desired. “You are Andraste’s Herald? Surely it leads you to some belief in Him? In Her? Andraste’s will made flesh?”

It was startling to hear her words, the Seeker’s usually quiet faith made loud and virulent so suddenly. And Lark had known the question would eventually come, had sat awake in the hours between her nightmares considering the thought. The supposed deity that she was, the sweeping hand of fate that supposedly now guided her. It had made her want to be sick, to curl up until she as small as she could be until she disappeared into the folds of her furs.

She had thought about it too when she thought of her brother, dead and ashen, gone from this world in one fell swoop of terror and violence. Baewen had been a man of faith, had chosen and worn his vallaslin with pride, had said his prayers and lain at their grandmother’s feet and sung the words of the gods, had known his place in the world that so often rejected them both. And yet what faith had done to save him? Faith had not stood between him and the blast, had not torn him from the ruins whole. Yet she, a disbeliever, had survived unscathed. Well, far from unscathed. Lark considered her hand and its Mark, felt the heat of its green glow as it twisted beneath her skin. Indeed, hardly unscathed. But alive nonetheless.

Good men die at the hands of faith, Lark knew. It was only bad men that prospered under its glowering gaze.

“The same hand of your Maker that swept me into this position took my brother from me at the Conclave. Excuse me if I don’t revel in its grasp.” The words were out of her mouth before she had time to consider them fully, to recognize the significance of what she had said. But the words were no longer her own, they hung between them, now tangled in the Seeker’s grave eyes. As silence clung to them both, Lark could feel the storm beginning to close in around them, heard the rumble of thunder in the darkness above them, like a beast snarling above them. Ready to strike.

“I’m sorry to hear of your brother’s fate, Lark. I did not know.”

“It’s not your fault, you’re the first person I’ve told.”

Lark realised this was the first time she had admitted the truth of her brother’s death aloud. She felt the shakes run through her, realising the gravity of the words that had dripped from her tongue like sickly honey, thick and cloying. They were true now, a certainty about them that she could not take back. Baewen was dead, dead and gone.

“We still have far to travel tomorrow, Herald. I believe it would be best if we both retire for the night.”

“Yes, you’re right.” _As always it would seem_ , Lark thought. With a small whisper of goodnight under her breath, Lark shut the thick bound tome and retreated to the sanctuary of her small tent, feeling the Seeker’s eyes upon her back. The older woman did not move from where she sat, her expression remaining grave in the firelight.

Lark, herself, curled slowly into her bedroll, shut her eyes, and dreamt of ashen angels’ wings and the golden women once more.

 

…

 

Cassandra lay awake for hours after their encounter, her dark eyes fixed upon the billowing cloth above her head and listening intently to the pitter-patter of rain across it. She played the Herald’s words over and over again in her mind, startled by them, terrified by them. The girl’s faith was absent, hollow within her chest. To think of it, to imagine herself empty of the Chant and the Maker and the world she knew left the Seeker aghast.

She had not expected those words from her. She had assumed that there must be some semblance of it within her heart, faith in the gods of her people and youth. That she could understand, that she knew well, to follow that which is taught to you without question, determined a hand other than your own. But to believe in nothing? To think of the world as devoid of the Maker’s hand and Andraste’s love. It frightened the Seeker, left her quaking in the darkness, consumed by a fear she had not felt since her youth, since the death of Antony.

It feeling of a great, black void staring back at her. An infernal emptiness awaiting her closed eyes. The Seeker tried to shake it from her mind but it would not dissipate. She was a child again, small and pale and thin, the sword in her hand wooden instead of steel, a pool of blood seeping across cracked flagstones before her, a familiar figure dead at her feet. In mourning and cloaked in anger and beholden to despair for an empty sky.

Unable to remain trapped there for any moment longer, Cassandra tore herself from her bedroll and pushed through the tent flap into the night air. She felt the rain upon her skin, cool in the summer heat as it tumbled out of the black sky. She drew her cloak around her head and approached the firepit, the flames now burning low and dampening out. A little of the hearth was protected by the overhanging trees, so she moved to sit close, reaching out to stoke the flames higher and huddling next to the glimmering warmth. It was a moment before she realised that she was not alone.

“Can’t sleep?”

The Seeker started, only to hear a familiar chuckle rumble behind her, low like thunder. The dwarf remained dressed for battle, the crossbow that he so insipidly named ‘Bianca’ still slung across his back, perspiration marking his forehead in the heat of the thunder that surrounded them.

“What are you doing awake at this hour?”

“I could ask you the same thing, Seeker.”

Cassandra raised her eyebrow at his retort and she saw his grin widen.

“Alright, I offered to keep watch so Matilde could get a few hours of sleep. The woman looked as if she may collapse at her post.” Varric plonked himself down next to the Seeker, before withdrawing a bolt from his quiver and beginning to sharpen the tip.

“How does the road look?” the Seeker asked, tightening the cloak around her shoulders.

It was Varric’s turn to raise an eyebrow then, evidently surprised by the Seeker’s lack of protest at his decision. Perhaps it was fatigue or the darkness of the hour or simply the weight of the day’s events upon them that left her quiet. Cassandra herself, did not know.

“Still quiet. Matilde said the same of her watch.”

Cassandra nodded in reply. She knew that the silence only boded ill, if the bandits were not here it only meant that they lay in wait up ahead, entangled in the war like the rest of them. Between them, the mages and the rogue templars, all that awaited them was destruction.

“Is anyone on watch now?”

“Solas offered, he’s out there now. We’ll always be safe with that pointy-eared bastard around.”

Cassandra found herself smiling despite herself. She did agree that the apostate struck an imposing figure when he wanted to, with that crudely fashioned staff at his back and the dark gleam of his scowling eyes. A little unnerving, she had to admit too.

“So, any specific reason why you can’t sleep other than our impending doom?” Each word of out of his mouth was cool, collected. There was a calm about him that Cassandra could never quite understand. After all that the dwarf had lived through, the violence and losses, he still kept that familiar grin upon his face and the air of ease about him.

“It is nothing. A discussion I had with the Herald proved less promising than I initially expected.”

“About anything in particular or…?”

“A question of faith.”

“Ah.” It was a sound of knowing that emanated from Varric’s lips. “I imagined you would realise sooner rather than later.”

“Realise what?”

“That Andraste’s Herald is a disbeliever.”

Cassandra felt her brow descending into a scowl, “What do you of this, dwarf?”

“That a Dalish elf who has very little belief in her own gods is hardly likely to pick up a spear and march for a deity that is singlehandedly responsible for the destruction of her people and their homeland. The Chantry’s history with the elves isn’t exactly what I’d call swell.”

_How am I so naïve?_ Cassandra felt herself leaning back against the tree behind her, absorbing Varric’s words. _What did I expect from an elven apostate, barely a child still?_ Cassandra thought of Justinia’s blue-eyed gaze in that moment, her lined brow and learned eyes. _Is this what she had wanted? A hollow saviour?_ Her writ deserved better. She deserved better.

“Her brother was with her at the Conclave.” Cassandra stopped for a moment, watching her words fill the dwarf’s eyes with a pained understanding. “She questions her role in this, her presence here, the death of a loved one. And I have no means to answer her.” Her breathing had grown heavy, a weight upon her chest and scratched her insides like sand through her lungs. “Faith is all that has ever been certain in my life. I have no means to know her without it.”

“Faith in the Maker, maybe. But the girl is still here, right? There must be more than faith to do with this.”

“What do you mean?”

“If she’s uncertain of the big guy upstairs then something else must be keeping her here. Faith in the Maker is not all that keeps us together.” Varric took a long breath, dropping his bolt back into his quiver. “Besides, I imagine it is not the Maker’s name, or even Andraste’s name that matters now. Our prayers are not enough, we rely upon her action and that creepy green glowing hand of hers, not divine providence. We don’t need her to believe, they-” he said gesturing towards the ranks of tents, “need her to lead.” As if in answer, a loud snore emanated from one of boy’s tents, crude and ragged.

Cassandra considered him for a moment. “ _Our_ prayers?”

A flush coloured the dwarf’s complexion, as if he’d let out a secret he’d meant to be keeping. Cassandra had never seen it upon the dwarf’s face before. “Did I say _our_ prayers? Must have been a mistake.”

Now it was the Seeker’s turn to grin, her lips curling into a bright smile. “You are an Andrastian then. A man of faith?”

Varric let out a snort, one the Seeker noted to be a little forced.

“I thought you knew me better than that Seeker?”

Their gaze met as Varric guffawed and Cassandra found herself considering his dark gaze, searching for the truth in it. She had wondered for a while now why the man had remained. He’d escaped her easily enough in Kirkwall and in this chaos, they could hardly spare the troops to track him down if he did make a run for the hills. He knew he could leave, so why didn’t he? There was something greater at play here. Something hidden amongst the toothy grin and the stubble and the bravado he cupped between his hands and that dangled in his dark eyes. Those creased, deep brown, laughing eyes.

“Besides, Seeker, what do any of us really know of gods, anyway?” he laughed.

“Gods?” It was Solas’ voice that emanated from the dark treeline, as he stepped into the firelight, sodden from the rain from his watch. “It is a late hour for such existential dread, is it not?” From where she sat, the elf’s eyes were black in the darkness, eerily so. Watchful and discerning in his approach.

“You are right, Solas.” As she lifted herself from where sat, she tightened the cloak around her frame. “We should all try and get some sleep before we set out tomorrow.”

“It’s alright. I’ll finish the watch with you, Chuckles. Better two eyes than one in the darkness.” The smile that curled Varric’s lips was a knowing one. As Cassandra watched the two of them, she noticed the apostate’s subtly pursed lips at the remark. There was no love lost between the two of them it would seem.

“Goodnight, Seeker.” The elf’s words were short and astute before turning back towards his post.

“From me as well.” Varric smiled before lowering himself into a mock bow. Cassandra felt an exasperated groan leave her lips as he did it, the exaggerated showmanship now a staple of his character it would seem. Varric only smiled more.

Returning to her tent, the Seeker found her limbs weary and her eyelids heavy. As she lay upon her bedroll, she found sleep came more easily now, drifting in a chorus of familiar laughter and light birdsong, a sign of the incoming morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I can't thank you enough for choosing to read my work. I appreciate it so much and love to hear any feedback or thoughts you have on it. 
> 
> Sidenote: I have started trying to align relationships in the story, both romantic and otherwise, with pieces of music. My list will grow as the story and characters do, though I currently only have two chosen:
> 
> Lark and Solas - roses by Jean-Michel Blais  
> Lark and Cassandra - god(s) by Jean-Michel Blais
> 
> I feel music, especially classical music, can aid in understanding and developing the character of interactions and the characters themselves. If you get a chance do these a listen as they are beautiful pieces.


	9. Delicate, Terrible Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An ambush leaves the young Herald shaken.

“LOOK OUT!”

Lark heard the arrow before she saw it, thundering through the air towards her in an arch of fire. Before she could think to move, she felt herself being ripped from the saddle, her feet violently torn from the stirrups as she was pulled to the ground, landing hard in the mud. She felt the air rush from her lungs as she fell, leaving her struggling to breathe, gasping and helpless. Lark could not move as her throat and lungs rasped, starved of air. As the rain weighed upon them, leaving her squinting and disorientated, all she could make out was the Seeker beside her, panting and crouched low behind the halted wagon, her sword raised and gleaming in the pale light from the rain clouds above.

“TEMPLARS!” The cry went up from one of the other soldiers and she felt the chaos descend around them in an instant, the terror clenching her heart as the air filled with the sound of steel being rung from scabbards, the clamour of armoured feet rushing into a defensive line through the dirt and sodden ground. Rain hammered down around them, soaking into her cloak, getting into her eyes. Lark couldn’t see or think or breathe but it was instinct that let her draw her blade and stand ready, breathing hard and every inch of her body pained and stricken.

They came veiled in shadow and night, emerging as if out of nowhere from the surrounding hills in a clap of thunder and a flash of lightning.  

Black-helmed and iron-clad, each bore the sigil of the flaming sword emblazoned in blood-red across their breastplates, the colour as bright as if freshly drained from their most recent quarry. There must have been at least twenty that approached them on a wave of steel and screams and sorrow. They were as Lark remembered from her youth, as visceral and as terrifying as they had been in the stories that had been whispered amongst the clans’ mages yet unimaginably worse. The terror came anew, on dark winds and screeched war-cries and ashen wind and a clattering of horses’ hooves as the wide-eyed animals struggled to break free from the incoming onslaught.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Varric climb onto one of the wagons and ready his crossbow, stringing a bolt into place with shaking fingers, while Solas drew his staff and joined the front line, calling ice to his side. The other recruits seemed to quake at his side, their eyes alive and terrified. It was Matilde that led them, stepping forward and drawing her bow, her grey eyes narrow and determined as she called out orders of formation. Yet to Lark, their own force suddenly appeared small, smaller in stature and in number and in heart.

“STEADY!” Cassandra stood in front of them all, sword raised. Rain caught gleaming in her hair and running across the ringing steel of her armour, she shone there like flame made human flesh.

They were upon them in an instant. The clash of steel rang out between the roars of battle, clangs of fist upon steel and Lark could taste the iron in the air, the iron of metal, mettle and blood. Lark found herself pressed back instantly as the recruits struggled against the initial wave of them, at the mercy of these monsters of men. One of the recruits fell swiftly, the nameless boy collapsing to the ground in a fit of terror and blood. The rest seemed to cave inwards as the wave crashed against them, screams rising in the wind, mixed between unsure footing on the sodden ground and a shivering fear.

Lark had little time to consider as she found herself at the mercy of one of the Templar’s rank, a soldier at least a foot taller and four times as broad. As he raised his sword to crack down upon her skull, Lark sent a barrage of lightning at his chest, catching him off guard and sending him convulsing to the ground. She felt the storm in her then, twisting in her veins and searing her blood. She felt powerful there in the rain, electric and framed in the violet light of the magic that surrounded her. Taking her chance, Lark retreated from the fray, clambering onto the wooden wagon next to Varric and tried to get to size up her options.

“Hey, kid. You doing alright?”

“What do you think?” Lark felt the blade flicker at her side as she said it, as she watched the carnage before them. The templars fought savagely, like beasts, baring teeth beneath their visors and eyes wild with rage. These were not the men of the order she knew, Cassandra had told her, these were the men that had given up, the animals who had chosen power over order. Those who had followed a promise of blood and riches and revenge on the mages who had troubled them so long.

Lark saw no difference. They were all savages in her eyes whether here in the wilds or in the gilded halls of the Chantry.

“HERALD!” It was instinct that saved her in that instant, bringing her blade up to meet the axe that swung towards her head. The woman that wielded it looked like death, her helmet discarded to reveal the jet-black eyes and pale skin beneath, hair wild in the wind and rain that swirled around them. With her teeth bared and her axe raised she bared down upon the young elf with the ferocity of a wild dog. Lark darted away, jumping from the wagon to evade her strikes, almost tumbling headfirst into the mud.

It was then she felt it. That familiar sensation. She felt her magic being drained from her, felt fatigue cling to her limbs slowly but suddenly. It was stronger than when the Commander had done it all those days ago. Now she felt like a cloth being steeped in boiling water, wilting and heavy as it washed over, drowning her. The woman only grinned malevolently.

No magic could save her it would seem. As she reached for the spark, as she tried to picture the curling violet light enrapturing her, she found it would not come. It was only her blade that stood between the young elf and certain death. And the templar only smiled as she raised her axe once more.

It took all of Lark’s strength to parry the woman’s blows as they swung through the air in quick succession, each one crude and heavy and terrifying. She was a huge brute of a woman, her shoulders and arms corded with thick muscle and she stood at least a head taller than Lark. It was like reckoning with a hurricane, each slash like the whip of gale force winds and each roar a clap of thunder. It was all Lark could do to try and keep at the storm’s eye.

As the seconds passed, turning too slowly into arduous minutes, the blade flickered with each strike, Lark feeling her will beginning to falter.

_I’ve faced down a fucking Pride Demon, I can take her. I know I can._ The words echoed in her mind, repeating over and over again like a war cry with each beat of her strike. Yet she found her feet faltered on the slick ground, almost giving out. Her own swings were weak by comparison, she felt raw and childlike, a foothill to a mountain of force.

Around her, her companions faired similarly. Solas sparred with a bear of a man, his ice distinctly weaker in the face of the Templar’s control. Varric was practically surrounded, his speed all that kept him from the clutches of the enemy. The look upon the Seeker’s face was one of pain, as if she fought reluctantly. She might have known these men, Lark realised, led them, trained them, dined and drank with them. These were former friends. Family.

“Stop this, we are not your enemy!” Her words were small amongst the rabble, her once great, magnetic voice made quiet by the ring of steel and sorrow.

“I don’t think they care, Seeker,” Varric called through gritted teeth. A sickly crunch followed his words as one of his bolts struck a chink in a man’s armour, severing his pauldron from his body and pushing his shoulder out of place. The snap of his collarbone followed quickly as the dwarf landed a second bolt at his neck.

            Bile rose in Lark’s throat, choking her. She smelt blood in the air, that distinct gnarled tinge of iron caught in the rain. It was a familiar smell now but ever unwelcome.

            It was then that Lark faltered, her feet slipping out from under her as the butt of the woman’s axe struck her ribs with a loud crack. The pain seethed like fire where she had been struck, as if her body had been skewered and had begun roasting over a fire like a suckling pig. Her scream was drowned by the cacophony around her, a cacophony of yells and thunder and the heat of war. Her fall was unbroken and she hit the ground hard, her arms slick with mud and her body practically drowning under the onslaught of rain.

As she lay there attempting to scramble away, the templar loomed over her, pressing a sharp iron boot upon her wrist, forcing the blade from her hand. It was all Lark could do not to cry with the fury and pain of it all.

“Time to die, knife-ear.” Her words were like a snake’s hiss through sharpened teeth as she raised her clamped fist.

_Fuck._

“HERALD!”

_I’m dead._

“LARK!” The voices rose around her in vein, as Lark tried raised her arms meagrely upwards as if to take the blow though it only sent a spasm of pain. The axe glinted as it rose in the air, it’s arch somehow a little graceful as it danced in its glide. Death danced well, it would seem.

The woman’s scream was forged in fire and fury. Lark’s eyes only opened when it was cut short with a small thump. Her eyes shot open to see a slim, unfamiliar, blue-feathered arrow protruding from the woman’s right eye, sending steaming red blood coursing down her face, lining the groves of her pale skin. With a small gargle and a last glance of terror, the woman collapsed dead to the ground while Lark scrabbled feebly in the dirt.

“Here.”

The voice was an unfamiliar one, surreally gentle, yet in the blur of battle Lark could only make out the hand extended to her but not the face or body it belonged to until she was being dragged haphazardly to her feet. She was met by a pair of green eyes below her own, belonging to a dwarf whose bow stood taller than the woman carrying it.

“Try not to die.” The dwarf was gone in a matter of seconds, darting into the fray.

Around her the tide of battle now ebbed in their favour. Men and women in Inquisition colours now swarmed the field, driving the rogue templars back, a crash of storm-like strength that echoed in the air and rain around them. Electricity filled the air, Lark could taste the spark in it, as the war battle changed hands in the flash.

“FORWARD!” It was the dwarf now that led the charge standing at the top of the upturned wagon, bow arm raised as she momentarily usurped the Seeker’s command. Her men pushed the templars back swiftly, leaving several crumpled at their feet while others, seeing their comrades fall, fled the way they had come. They faired poorly with each aim of the dwarf’s bow, picking them off one by one as they rushed back. The eyes of the enemy, once so enraged, now wide with fear.

“Follow the stragglers, find the hole they crawl back into.” At the dwarf’s order, several of her troops split off from the main contingent and followed the shadow-helmed soldiers into the hills.

“Scout Harding, I presume?”

The young dwarf turned at the Seeker’s word, inclining her head in greeting.

“Seeker Pentaghast, we came as swiftly as our feet would allow.” There was something regal in the tone of her voice, the incline in her pitch pleasant to the ear, Lark thought. Something sharp about it, though, a knowing glint reflected there just as in her bright eyes. “We’ve been tracking the group that attacked you for some time, they have evidently grown more brazen in attacking your party. They have previously only gone after the refugees, and only those who travel in small numbers.”

“And what of the crossroads? I take it they remain vulnerable?”

“I have a small group of men stationed there now though we are vulnerable there. It is the apostates that pose the greatest threat. They descend out of the Witchwood every so often to raid what remains of the settlement there and we hardly have enough strength to fend them off. It won’t be long before the Templars get the same idea.”

“Then we will make our way there now. Soldiers prepare to move out.”

Lark noticed the Scout eyeing the soldiers they had brought with them and saw concern brew in her gaze as she considered them. Lark found her own eyes lingering too, on the scarcity of their number, of the wounds that racked their sides and the wide-eyed glances. They looked small again even as they moved to right the wagon and marched back into formation. Barely men and women, these soldiers looked younger by the second.

“I mean no respect Seeker, but we were expecting more troops in your company.”

“The Commander’s training has proved slower than anticipated given a few unforeseen circumstances. More will be dispatched soon.”

Lark felt a flush creep up her neck and through the swell of her cheeks, memories of ice water and the paralyzing darkness of the lake’s depths and the Commander’s sodden golden curls taking hold in her mind.

“Thank you, Seeker. We will be glad to have more support here.”

Their conversation ended, the Seeker and Scout Harding moved to push the group forward. The wagon had been set right, the wheels thankfully still attached, and the horses had been wrangled, the troops mostly back in saddle and armed. A few remained behind to bury the dead and to see what they could learn from the fallen Templars, but the rest moved on further into the countryside.

It had taken a greatly pained and concerted effort for Lark to pull herself back into the saddle. From the slicing pain at her side, she was certain at least one of her ribs was broken. It felt like a flaming poker jutted from her side as she rode, each rise and fall of her weak mount forcing an added grunt of pain. She lifted her right hand and made a measly attempt to heal herself with the flick of magic at her wrist, but with her will drained and her body already steeped in exhaustion, she could do little but dull the pain. It was a few moments before she realised that the dwarven scout had fallen into stride beside her.

“That’s a neat trick.” Try all she might, Lark struggled to place the woman’s accent. The sound was too gentle to determine anything from it.

Lark managed a small smile. “Thanks. I imagine it will prove more and more useful.” The dwarf nodded, the glint of her smile reflected in her eyes.

“You’re right there.” She paused for a second, as if contemplating her next words. “So, how does one properly address the Herald of Andraste? Your holiness? My Herald…?”

“Honestly, Lark is fine. Besides, I should be singing your praises after what you did.”

The young scout’s laugh tinkled in the air, graceful and unassuming. “Just doing my job there, your Worship. Though if you really feel truly indebted, a few pints wouldn’t go amiss.” The formality of the woman’s words had not dropped, as if she carefully contemplated each word she said, but there was a kindness there, a familiarity. Lark knew she was right to like the dwarf.

“So, how did you come to be here? I take it you didn’t fall out of the sky like me?”

The dwarf’s grin widened slightly, hesitating in the sharp tinkle of her laughter before answering. “Not quite so dramatically, no. But I was at the Conclave too, I’d been making a fair bit of coin guiding travellers and Chantry delegates through the trickier parts of the mountain pass and up to the summit. Confused clerics are always willing to part from their gold in times of crisis it would seem.” She paused, as if caught in the memory. The tone of her voice had lowered suddenly, as if grasped by the serious nature of her words. “I was on my way back down the mountainside when the explosion hit. I thought it was an earthquake at first, practically knocked me down the mountainside. After seeing the crater where the temple had been I volunteered to help guide refugees and later the Inquisition through the debris, through the countryside and apparently I was useful enough to keep around.” She punctuated her last words with a shrug of shoulders, the arc of her shoulders almost reaching to her ears with an ease Lark found unfamiliar. “Not bad for a shepherd’s daughter, I would say.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, how old are you?”

The scout smiled. “Twenty-two this coming Firstfall.” The scout laughed at her expression. “Don’t worry, your Worship, you are not alone here.”

Lark felt a warmth rise in her chest. Though she enjoyed the others’ company, Varric’s especially, the rest of their party were older, a particular estrangement of knowledge and experience and camaraderie that would ever be impossible to breach. The recruits her own age were too busy gaping and gawking to make much conversation, many choosing to keep their distance in the tavern and on the training field, any interaction limited to the sliver of whispered words as she passed. Whether this was out of reverence, regard or revulsion was still unclear to the young elf. There were still many who looked between her ears and vallaslin and turned tail.

“Thanks.” The elf was glad, then, to have made a friend. “So, if you’re a shepherd’s daughter, where did you learn to shoot?”

“Wolves will always have a particular proclivity for lamb’s meat.”

“Ah.”

“And wolves appear to be everywhere these days. Marching under a different crest this time, admittedly…”

“Scout Harding.” The dwarf’s train of thought was interrupted by one of the recruits. “Seeker Pentaghast would like a word.”

“Yes, recruit.” As the boy moved off, the young scout sighed. “No rest for the wicked it would seem.”

Lark managed a small smile as the Scout saluted before proceeding to the front of the caravan.

In the woman’s absence, she felt the pain return once more, singeing her side like a brush of flame. As she gritted her teeth, she couldn’t help but play the dwarf’s words in her head once more. Wolves everywhere she had said. As she looked around her, searching the shadows of the forested hillside, she could almost see the eyes upon her. Golden, gleaming and hungry. Very hungry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for continuing to bear with me. All feedback is welcome! I hope you enjoy.


	10. A Crossroad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'All was lost,  
> But that the heavens fought.'  
> William Shakespeare. Cymbeline, Act. V Sc. III

She smelt the chaos before she saw it. It rose heavily on the wind, the acrid stench of closely packed bodies mixed with the bitter tang of dried blood and human detritus left her retching in the saddle. Then it was the noise, the wailing of children, pained and shrill; the limp cries of the ill and infirm, calling mournfully for aid. The growing dread pooled in her gut as they rode the last mile of their journey, frightened of what they would find.

As they rounded the last twist of the valley’s path, Lark finally caught sight of what awaited them at the Crossroads and felt her legs weaken beneath her.

A makeshift camp had been erected across the bare, barren farmland of the war-torn valley, covering every spear patch of empty earth and flagstone road. Those that didn’t burst out of the abandoned, ruined barns and farmhouses were cramped into makeshift shelters and tents, most little more than thin blankets suspended between tree branches. Hundreds of people crowded the area, mothers with wailing infants strapped to their backs, skinny children flitting in amongst them and clinging to their skirts. Displaced farmers, their limbs sinewy and restless, numbered most prominently amongst the crowd, their eyes lined and shadowed from exhaustion. There were the wounded too, hurt in the fighting, reduced to little more than patchworks of torn flesh and dried blood and shivering in the cooling air, while the old clutched at the worn clothes on their backs and huddled around stray campfires that casted thin and murky pillars of black smoke curling into the sky. It was a haze of movement and soot and smoke and muddied ground that left Lark’s eyes and lungs stinging and her mind careening.

They all had one thing in common. Hunger. It stalked the camp like some great, skeletal beast, raising its ugly head in the pale, terrified faces of all those unlucky to walk beside it. Thin and terrified families clung to each other for fear of its bite. It snarled and clawed at last resolves, terrorising all who remained with gnashing teeth and scraping claws.

For all their journeying, the Seeker had not told them what to expect, Lark realised, as she took in her surroundings. She had read snatches of the Seeker’s missives from the front that mentioned the carnage, had heard whispers amongst the recruits of the state of the refugees but it was different seeing it, hearing it, watching their suffering echo across every inch of the horizon.

“Corporal Vale has set up a base this way.” Scout Harding dismounted before leading her mount carefully between the rows of tents. The rest of their party followed her hesitantly, some bringing the wagon around the outside of the area rather than risk dragging it through the mud and people.

"I thought I’d seen the worst at Kirkwall,” Varric muttered, his eyes narrowed.

“There’s always something worse.” Solas’ words were quiet but solemn in their cadence, a knowing in them.

“And what wars have you been in, Chuckles?” The humour of the name was lost amongst them now, the attempt hollow, Varric’s bright laughter dampened in the mud and murk.

“Enough to know, child of the stone.”

Lark thought better of asking what he meant.

As they moved through the crowd, eyes followed them warily. While some gazed longingly at the wagons, clutching to the prospect of fresh supplies, most eyes narrowed at the sight of Solas’ staff and robes.

“Be careful where you tread here, Solas. There’s no love lost for apostates at a time like this.”

“I am aware.” His words were short and sharp and bitter in their temperament. “I am in no need of a warning. I know the sentiment well.”

“We both do,” Lark muttered, watching the pale, lined faces following her movements. What must she look like to the people here? It appeared that few elves numbered amongst the faces that stared as they passed. From what she knew of her kin, she imagined that even in times of crisis they still would be cramped into their shadowed cities, clinging to one another in the slums’ darkness. Only wide-eyed humans here in the open air, perhaps seeing a Dalish elf for the first time in their lives, taking in the ears and vallaslin and the magic at her fingertips as a dangerous novelty, an enemy to most who spent their lives tilling fields and wanted nothing to with wandering nomads and tribesmen who scripture and scholarship had taught them to fear.

A question struck her. “How many of them know who I am, Seeker?”

The Seeker did not hesitate in her answer. “All of them.”

“That was fast,” Lark heard Varric mutter.

“Mother Giselle wrote that some even have begun to ask for you.”

“Why?”

“Why do you think, kid?” Varric’s pointed gaze was telling. “You remember who you are now, right?”

 _Yes, an upstart elven apostate promised to save them. A heathen in draped in the false mantle of divinity._ Chancellor Roderick’s words echoed in her mind as she moved through them.

“Yes Varric, I remember clearly.” Varric raised an eyebrow at her curt tone but did not press her on it.

The Inquisition’s base had evidently been hastily built into the foundations of one of the old farmhouses, a marquee draped where the roof had been to keep out the elements. A table laden with an oversized map of the Fereldan countryside, dotted with tiny wooden figures and troops, as well as piles of missives and documentation. Beside it stood the man Lark assumed to be Corporal Vale, tall and dark, though slim for a soldier she thought. His helm glinted in the lantern light, polished blindingly yet askew where it sat, as if it were too small for his head.

“Corporal Vale, ser?”

“Seeker Pentaghast, it’s good you have finally arrived. And…your Worship.” To Lark’s distinct horror, the man dropped into an exaggerated salute, the force of his arm almost enough to knock his lopsided helm off of his head. “It is an honour to meet you, Herald of Andraste.”

“I, uh, appreciate the sentiment, ser, but there’s really no need for the formality.”

Lark could tell the Corporal was not sure what to make of her. She too was confused by her role here, her rank. Did she hold a rank within the troops? Were they obligated to follow her orders? Or was she just a novel mascot, little more than a lucky talisman to be carted around in their pockets than a person of actual utility.

“Ah yes, of course… Well, to put it bluntly then, ma’am, we were anxious for your troops to arrive to bolster our ranks. We’re spread too thin here. The apostates have taken to descending out of the woods at any given moment and have been even more brazen since the rogue templars took Fort Connor to the west a week ago. The people here are terrified of the next attack and, to add insult to injury, the people are starving here. The stores of grain reserves are empty and there’s no troops to spare to send out hunting in the hills. The water supply is holding steady but we’re having to quash rumours of it being poisoned by the mages almost daily. With that and the encroaching cold weather, these people won’t survive here much longer if something isn’t done, ma’am.”

“Has there been any word from the West, did Master Dennet send word of the people at Redcliffe farms? Of his resources?” The concern in the Seeker’s eyes seemed to grow by the second, pooling like storm clouds.

 _There’s always something worse_ , Solas had said.

“Nothing from him since last week. He’s not risking sending anything or anyone on the road, not even a courier, not now since Fort Connor’s capture and the bridge collapse at the Great Glass Falls. Much of the countryside is cut off from us now. We have more access to the east but there’s been word of a band of cultists that have moved into the Tower Ruins in the hills. Some of the refugees have run off to join them. They’re not hostile but that could change if they pool enough resources.”

“We’re in trouble, Seeker. That’s the gist of it.” From her few interactions with the woman, Lark could already tell that Scout Harding did not mince her words.

A silence hung between them in the moments it took the Seeker to process the information they had relayed. It was disconcerting to see her this way, her stoicism shaken and fear briefly realised in the sharp glint of her eye. To Lark, it was like catching your foot on a stair, a split second of black fear as you feel yourself flailing forwards, your world giving way beneath you.

“There are more troops coming,” the Seeker managed, “The Commander has sent word of their imminent arrival, they will help bolster our ranks here and fend off any further attacks. It will take a concerted effort to push the mages and rogue templars back but it can be done if we track their bases. As for the other matters…”

Lark had begun to examine the map, the glimmer of a steel-capped marksman figurine catching her eye. As the others spoke, she moved to cup it in her hand, her thumb gracing the grooves of its tiny features and running a finger across the lines of the map, following the grooves of rolling hills and cliff edges to the east. The landscape was familiar to her, she realised, the places she studied not dissimilar from those she had crossed with the Lavellan in the Free Marches “Securing a supply of game can’t be too hard to do in these hills.” The others turned to her as she broke her silence.

“What would you suggest, Herald?” It was Scout Harding’s voice that called out from the back of the room. When she caught her eye, Lark thought she caught a glimpse of a smirk on her lips.

“Given the climate and the terrain, there will most likely be wild ram in these hills, maybe some hare too. Some meat would be enough to quell people’s hunger, at least until we can set up a more secure supply line, right?”

“We can’t spare the men for an expedition that far.” The Seeker’s eyebrow had raised higher as the Corporal spoke.

“You wouldn’t need soldiers, maybe a scout or two to navigate but surely a few volunteers from amongst the refugees would do. At least some of them must be hunters or know how to make a snare. Even poachers would do if they’re willing to come forward.”

“That would give us a chance to round up some of the caches of supplies some of the apostates have stowed around the countryside too. They’ll have blankets and bandages, maybe even some healing herbs that will help stave off the first of the winter winds.” Scout Harding voice carried in the small space as she came to stand beside her at the table’s edge. “I could send Scout Ritts and Scout Cole, they’ve both been itching for more to do than just marking patrol routes.”

“And what of the cultists? How we do we expect to deal with them? I imagine they won’t take too kindly to us encroaching on their territory,” the Seeker interjected.

“We keep out of their way as much as possible and if we do have to make contact then we deal with it when it happens. They are yet to be actively aggressive and there’s no guaranteeing that they would be. For all we know they could be keen to trade or talk to us,” Lark continued. “Cultists have to survive as much as we do.”

“You’re right there,” Varric laughed.

“It’s settled then, Scout Harding will convene the group of hunters and scouts. Now if we…”

“Excuse me.” An unfamiliar voice emanated from the tent’s mouth, gentle and light in the cool air. It floated around them like a breeze, a warmth in it Lark could not place, like the rustle of the wind through golden autumn leaves. She turned along with the rest of their party to find its source. She was met by the silhouette of a Chantry official, evident by the tall, gold-embossed, veiled headpiece casting a long shadow across the small space. As Lark squinted in the light, the figure came into greater focus.

A woman draped in the red, cream and golden robes of a Chantry cleric stood before them. A Revered Mother based upon the slim chain that hung from her neck. Her skin was dark, though a little lighter than Lark’s own, and with her hair concealed beneath the veiled headpiece. By the skin of her slim hands and the lines around her dark eyes, Lark figured the woman was older, in her fifties perhaps.

“I apologise for the interruption but I was hoping to speak with the Herald of Andraste if she would spare a moment.”

“Mother Giselle.” The Seeker moved to greet her quickly, her head bent in reverence. “It is good to meet with you again after all these years. The Divine always spoke highly of you and with due reverence in my time with her.” The outburst of grandiose praise was uncharacteristic of the woman she knew, Lark thought. The Seeker did not seem one to acquiesce to social frivolity.

The Revered Mother smiled at the remark and extended an arm to the Seeker. “Your kindness warms me, Lady Cassandra. It was with great sadness that I learned of the Divine’s death. Her life was one of great pride and accomplishment, I was proud to walk in her light.”

The Seeker smiled in gratitude, though her eyes were downcast, an uncharacteristic sorrow taking root in the darkness there. Lark understood now too. The Revered Mother was a connection to the Divine, to a lost life. It was only right she hasten to connect with it.

The Revered Mother turned to Lark, “My dear, I take it you are the woman I seek?” It was strange to have the woman’s eyes upon her, Lark thought. It was a different kind of gaze than that to which she had grown accustomed in recent days. Inquisitive but not intrusive, gliding between her features with grace rather than gawking. Her eyes were discerning too, yet inscrutable.

“I believe so, Revered Mother.”

“If you do not mind, I would have a word in private if you can spare a moment.”

Lark looked to the Seeker, only to see her gaze averted still. It was Varric that caught her eye, his expression one of unusual uncertainty. Solas remained quiet as ever. “Of course.”

“This way, if you would,” Mother Giselle smiled, holding out her arm to the tent’s mouth.

Lark squinted as she stepped out into the light, lifting a hand to shade her eyes as a momentary glimpse of sunlight broke through the pale clouds. Mother Giselle moved ahead deftly through the camp for someone garbed in robes so encumbering. Lark followed hesitantly at her heel.

“The Herald of Andraste,” Mother Giselle mused as they walked together, “What do you make of your new moniker, your Worship?” She was clearly Orlesian, Lark released, by her thick accent. It was a soft sound though, much like Leliana’s. The words were smooth like silk, each one rolling into the next. It was pleasant, if jarring when surrounded by Fereldans. With that and the robes she wore, the Revered Mother appeared not to belong

“It wasn’t through any choice of mine, I’ll admit.”

The Revered Mother chuckled at the response. “We seldom have much say in our own fates, I’m sad to say. Your Seeker Pentaghast will know that most acutely, I am sure.”

“What do you mean?”

“Ask her the story of how she came to sit as the Divine’s Right Hand and you will come to understand.” They had come to a stop at the entrance to one of the last barns that remained standing in the area. As they stepped inside, Lark found herself surrounded by the wounded lying on blankets and stretchers across the floor. She was met with that increasingly familiar scent of blood and spoiled flesh in the air, a gagging and clawing stench, and the bitter tang of crushed embrium, and other cloying healing herbs. For such a large and busy space, only two healers flitted between the wounded, both evidently flustered and pale at the load they bore.

Their conversation paused as the Revered Mother stopped at a young soldier’s side to relieve one of the exhausted healers, reaching for a jug to help tip water into the woman’s mouth. She was greeted by a meagre word of thanks as she worked, mopping the woman’s feverish forehead with a slightly shaking hand. The young woman appeared to drift in and out of consciousness.

“If you would, Herald,” she said, holding out the cloth. “Try to keep her cool.” Lark took it and began dabbing at the woman’s forehead to drain away the perspiration. It was a strangely comforting task, a familiar one.

“I will talk quickly, Herald, as I know there is still much to be done. On your part and on mine.” Her eyes did not lift from her charge as she worked to fix a set of skewed bandages at the woman’s ribcage. “I know you seek my counsel for your fledgling Inquisition. Specifically, on how to rally the Chantry clerics to hear your claims, if I am correct?”

“Leliana thought you would be able to help us.”

“Though I am grateful for Sister Leliana’s faith in me, I am not sure how much help I can be in that regard. You may be surprised to know that you and I both share a little experience of making an enemy of the Chantry’s hierarchy.

“In truth though I’m afraid the Chantry’s denouncement and the continued absence of aid is down to grandstanding. A number of them vie for the Sunburst Throne, others are simply terrified of what further action could spawn. So much senseless violence has occurred, they fear only more to come.”

“And they believe we will cause it?”

Mother Giselle ground a little elfroot between her forefinger and thumb and laced it beneath the edge of the bandages to ease the soldier’s pain. “Your Inquisition may have the Divine’s will behind it, but she is not here to stand beside you in your efforts and you remain a novelty to many. To those like Chancellor Roderick, you are simply another heretical pretender come to compete for the Throne. And history has produced enough of those to lend credence to their way of thinking.”

“But…”

“No, this will not do.” The Revered Mother sighed as she wiped her hands on her robes, a swift movement and that left Lark taken aback. She had never seen a Chantry cleric work like this, those she had encountered in her time with the Inquisition remained pristine and upright, the picture of propriety. None would stoop so low as to help a soldier in pain, none worked as Mother Giselle did now, with her hands and heart.

“Harriet,” the Mother called out to the other free healer, “Fetch Elea, we will need her skill here.”

The pale, young healer ran to do as she was instructed, returning quickly with a round-faced, olive-skinned mage at her side. The Revered Mother moved aside to allow the mage to kneel.

“If you would, my friend.” Elea nodded in understanding, calling a gentle golden light to her fingertips, muttering under her breath words that Lark could just make out as a familiar healing spell.

But before she could reach out, the mage was interrupted. “No.” The word was almost so quiet that Lark did not hear it. It had barely escaped the soldier’s lips, rasping and quiet as it fled. “Don’t let her touch me, Mother.”

Lark stepped back as if she had been struck, dropping the cloth with a dull thud. The mage, Elea, was calmer. Her features were solemn, as if she had expected this. Perhaps even a frequent occurrence?

“Why, my child?”

“Her magic is …”

“…turned to noble purpose.” The Revered Mother’s words were authoritative in tone. “Her magic is surely no more evil than your blade?”

“But I…”

“Hush, dear girl. Let Elea ease your suffering.”

The girl acquiesced quickly under the Revered Mother’s gentle gaze and Elea busied herself with her magic, her emotions well-hidden even if her face was a little flushed with frustration. Mother Giselle pulled herself to her feet, whispered a last instruction to the other healer, before moving off towards the barn entrance. Lark followed, casting one last glance at the scene. She felt the anger in her heart once more, rising like smoke to choke her.

“Is this a regular occurrence?”

Mother Giselle sighed. “It is an unfortunate truth. Mages have always been distrusted here and the war has done little to assuage such a harsh sentiment amongst these people.” She glanced between the injured behind her and the treeline that lined the hilled horizon. “I fear it will continue like this for some time, and you will be made to bare the burden of such sentiment most acutely, even with divine providence at your back.”

Lark had feared this so was not surprised by the Revered Mother’s words. She was mildly startled when the Revered Mother turned to fix her stare upon her, that gentle, knowing gaze. Up close there was a tenderness to her dark eyes, but one that left Lark quaking where she stood. Why, she did not fully understand.

“In all honesty, Herald, I do not know if you have been touched by fate or sent to help us but…I hope. Hope is what we need now, what these people need most dearly. They will listen to your rallying cry, especially now with the Chantry so divided, your voice will be brighter and bolder than any other.” She paused to think for a moment. “Go to them. Convince them you are no demon to be feared. Even if you do not convince them all, a little doubt will deny them their power, their unified voice.”

“So, you will help us?”

“I will do what I can. I will send word to my fellow clerics of my beliefs and go to Haven to provide Leliana with all the help I can once I am finished here. I do not know of how much use I will be, but I am glad to lend what I can to your cause. Your Inquisition, that will undoubtedly deliver us… or destroy us.” Her last words hung in the air between them, like a sudden chill.

Despite it all, Lark felt relief flood through her. “Thank you, Mother Giselle.”

The Revered Mother only smiled, though for a second Lark thought that the older woman’s eyes filled with something that looked like sorrow. She turned as if to return to her work, but stopped herself for a moment. “You bear a great weight upon your shoulders for someone so young, Larkin. I am afraid it will only grow heavier with time, with every life that you take in your hands and carry with you. Know that however much those who follow you try, the burden t can never be truly shared. Not by anyone, not by a friend or even a lover. It can only ever be yours.”

With that, the Revered Mother turned back to the darkness of the barn and the pained cries of the wounded before disappearing to aid another lost soul. Lark was left standing alone in the doorframe as she felt a strange deepening dread grow in her heart, like a river threatening to burst its bank in the face of an encroaching flood.

 

…

 

The Seeker’s missive was quick and to the point, much like the woman herself Cullen thought. The request was simple and the same as it always had been in the days previously, a call for more troops at the front. _The templars remain at our backs. The mages terrorize the countryside. The refugees will die without more of our protection. I implore you, Commander…_ Each was exactly like the last. Yet despite her efforts, this did not vastly hasten the pace of the recruit’s training. This did not cause a mass upsurge in volunteers for their forces, wish as the Commander might. The Seeker’s faith may have been powerful, unmatched even in its potency, but it was not capable of forging its own miracles.

At least not yet.

The newest missive however was different from the others in its concluding lines. _The Herald has convinced Revered Mother Giselle to join our cause and lend her aid in our dealings with the Chantry. The girl impressed her. She should arrive at Haven in the next week._

It had taken him three attempts to fully comprehend the gravity of the Seeker’s words. ‘ _The girl impressed her,’_ she had written in her usual, neat hand. The thought left him incredulous. When he tried to imagine the girl in the field, her sword in hand and alight in all its brilliance, or surrounded by the penitent masses at the crossroads or even simply standing before him, he was unable to form her image. Instead, he felt a sharp ripple of pain jut through his pounding head and felt his eyes and mind be plunged once more into that familiar, freezing abyss.

It had been weeks since he’d been pulled from the lake yet still the memories plagued him, taunted him, tormented him. Cullen remembered little from when he had blacked out underwater, only the black, searing darkness beneath the ice as he feel unconscious. He had awoken in his bed three days, he had been told, alone and shaking. The girl had already gone, unable to face him, he imagined.

He imagined the lyrium withdrawal caused the memories to intensify like this, like a rising, scalding fever. As the stale drug receded from his veins in its own excruciatingly sluggish fashion, it switched between dulling and heightening his senses. Heightening pain but dulling intellect. Denying him sleep at night yet exhausting him in the cruel daylight. The Commander had made his excuses to Ambassador Montilyet and Sister Nightingale that morning before spending much of the last day doubled over with a migraine, tucked away as he was now in the comforting darkness of the lowly-lit War Room.

The lyrium haunted him, taunted him. Its saccharine sweetness sticking in his veins and heart, molten and burning. But he would not give into it. He could fend off the desire, he could live with this suffering for a time at least. It would not last forever, the Seeker had reminded him of that too. He would not give up. He would not give in.

With great effort Cullen pulled himself up from his chair, an effort made easier by his armour thankfully having been discarded in his room, instead lending his weight to the solid, varnished oak of the war table. Only two candles burned in the small space, just enough to see but not enough to hurt, Cullen noted thankfully. The dim light faintly illuminated the lines of the landscape, casting light shadows across the paper world. Cullen reached out to trace the light swirls of ink that represented the Waking Sea, that great, violent expanse of water to the north that lay between Fereldan and the Free Marches. As he ran his calloused fingertips across the rugged coastline, he thought of Kirkwall, of the carnage that had been left in the apostate’s wake there.

Strangely, he found himself thinking of his bunk in the Kirkwall city barracks, of how empty it had looked when he had packed his few meagre earthly possessions and left the city at the Seeker’s side. He wondered who had taken it in his stead. Another of the men he had left behind he assumed. Another faceless comrade in arms under those same thin blankets. Cullen found himself yearning for the familiarity of it all. Of his old routine, old habits and old friends. While he was thankful for his place here, for the unjustified trust Seeker Pentaghast placed in him especially, he missed the stiff comforts of his old military life. The simplicity of taking orders, not giving them.

But then he remembered why he had had to leave. He remembered the thundering earth as the Kirkwall Chantry had exploded and the anguished screams of civilians as the city had crumbled, felt the flash of terror as he remembered Ser Meredith suffocating as she was transformed, her eyes alive yet dead as they were encased in that singing red stone.

No, he was lying to himself. It had never been simple. It had always been a violent life he had lived, only it had been his own violence at first. Behind the Circle’s walls rather than Chantry ones. 

A gentle knock at the door drew him sharply from his thoughts. His mind felt like it was tumbling forward in the darkness from the shock of it.

“Come in,” he called out reluctantly.

The door swung open to reveal Ser Lysette in the door frame. She was out of her armour, dressed for comfort rather than battle in suede slacks and a light chemise. Even in the dim light, her upswept curtain of raven hair shone brightly. It was pleasant to watch it gently twinkle as she approached him.

“Pardon the intrusion, Commander. Sister Leliana asked me to deliver this to you.” She held out a small scroll of parchment to him. “She didn’t say to what it referred.”

“Thank you, Ser. I appreciate it.” The Commander managed a small smile as he took it from her.

He broke Leliana’s seal with a slight snap and unravelled the parchment. In Leliana’s distinct, flourishing scrawl, the note read: DESPITE WHAT CASSANDRA MAY INSINUATE, COMMANDER, YOU ARE PERMITTED TO GET SOME SLEEP EVERY NOW AND THEN. Cullen found himself chuckling despite himself as Ser Lysette looked on quizzically.

“Would you like me to bring her a reply?”

“No, no,” he managed, stifling his laughter, “I imagine our Spymaster does not expect a reply to this particular instruction.”

Lysette only looked more puzzled, but did not attempt to voice her curiosity. “Well then, I believe I’ll return to dinner. Unless there is anything else you need, ser?”

“I am fine, thank you Lysette.”

She nodded, but as she turned to leave, the knight appeared to think better of it and turned back to face the wearied Commander. “Excuse me if this sounds rude Cullen, but you do look awful. Are you sure there’s nothing I can do?” Her voice had shifted to one Cullen knew well, less stiff in its cadence but smooth instead. A voice he remembered well from nights he had spent losing rounds of Wicked Grace to her and Brendan in the Kirkwall barracks.

“You were never one to mince your words, Lysette.”

As she drew closer to the war table in the dim candle light, she looked a little flushed from the heat of the small room but continued, “And you were never one to look _this_ terrible but here we are.”

Cullen felt a laugh burst from his lips despite his best efforts to quash it, leaving his head a little sore. “I’m just a little tired, that’s all.”

Other than himself, it was only the Seeker that knew of his decision to give up lyrium. He did not intend it to be a source of gossip or intrigue within the Inquisition ranks. He would not even tell his Templar compatriots, not even Lysette and Brendan who had followed him here unquestioningly. The Commander feared that even they would not understand his decision, Lysette especially given her devotion to the Order. It was his demon to tame, no matter how much the beast rattled its cage.

Cullen paused for a moment. “Do you miss Kirkwall?

“Sometimes.” As she spoke, she moved round the war table before settling into a chair next to his. “I miss some of the soldiers we fought alongside. Serah and Damien especially. Maybe even Rylen, though I’d never tell him.” Cullen could picture those she mentioned as clearly as if they stood before him, the flashing grin and heavy laugh lines of the latter most particularly. His old friend was in Starkhaven according to his last letter, despite Cullen’s best attempts to persuade him to come here instead. She continued, “I don’t envy their current task, but then again I imagine they mustn’t envy ours much either.”

“You’re probably right there.”

“Do you miss it?”

“Every time I try to picture the city, I can only ever imagine the night of the explosion. It colours everything now.”

Lysette shuddered slightly as she sunk further into her chair, “I know what you mean. It’s hard not to, I suppose, when you live through something like that.”

They sat in a comfortable silence for a time, each considering the other’s words. Cullen knew he had always enjoyed the woman’s company in their days in arms. She was a comfort here, a familiar and anchoring presence in a sea of uncertainty. A friendly face. A pretty face too, he had realised some time ago, with the graceful slope of her high cheekbones and bright eyes.

“I suppose it’s inevitable really.” Her words were quiet now, lilting in the candlelight.

“What do you mean?”

“We’re soldiers, Cullen. We’ll always miss the last safe house when we’re out on campaign, the last warm bed we slept in when we’re down in the muck.”

“I wouldn’t call this muck.”

She laughed a little, “You know what I mean.”

“Yes, I believe I do.”

He met her gaze in that moment, feeling her bright eyes lightly scanning his features. Was there something expectant in her eyes? He wasn’t sure. Yet in the half-light he felt his mind start to race, the pounding headache only intensifying.

Cullen had felt her arm on his that day at the lake, had felt its assurance in the face of the young Herald’s wrath. It had been a small moment but a moment nonetheless. It was a selfish thought, he knew. To look at her this way and hold out that familiar, blushing hope. A hope that he thought only lingered in fluttering fancies at a campfire’s edge, in wry smiles exchanged for batted eye-lids.  A hope that had last risen in his chest when he had first caught sight of a particular fair-haired mage at Kinloch all those years ago.

But was it even truly that? Or was it the loneliness casting out its pale, gnarled hand for the comfort of someone familiar, a warmth and touch he knew…

“I take it you can see Kirkwall on the map, then?” As she broke their silence, Lysette rose from the chair to lean on the war table. A leading question, certainly, but leading where? Cullen was too timid to ask.

Despite his better judgement, Cullen rose to stand beside her, reaching out a gloved hand across the Waking Sea once more. “Just here, a little south of the Vinmark Mountains.”

Lysette gazed intently for a moment. “You don’t think about how large the world is until you see it laid out like this. It’s so vast. And Kirkwall’s so far away, all that time travelling to get here yet I could never have imagined…” She trailed off, reaching out to touch the little star that represented the now broken city. “Do you ever think you’ll go back there, Cullen?”

Cullen felt his brow crease as he thought, “I imagine it depends.”

“On what?” She had her eyes fixed intently on his own.

“On what happens here, I assume.” He made to motion to the room, to the symbols of the Inquisition around them, but stopped as he noticed the glint of the candlelight in her eyes.

“Right here?”

He paused for a moment, finding himself leaning into her. “Yes, I suppose so.” He met her hand over the small star, feeling her warmth even through the leather.

“Right here.” Her words were slow, smooth as they filled the small room, mingling with the heat in the air as she fixed him once more with her warm, bright-eyed gaze.

She kissed him then, angling her face up to meet his own in a single, elegant motion. It was gentle at first, the sweet heat of her soft lips lightly gracing his own. And then he felt himself leaning into her, deepening it, his hands rising to cup her face as he pressed against her, feeling the warm, soothing curves of her body pushed up against him, the hint of corded muscle in her limbs enrapturing him, the heat of her mouth and glimpse of her tongue sending his legs quaking lightly beneath him.

Yet for a moment, he felt absolutely secure there, entwined in her familiar arms. Drinking in her warmth and strength there in the dim candlelight, making it his own.

She broke away for a moment, the look in her heavily-lidded eyes sending a light flutter of desire through him.

“Right here, was it?” she said, her voice breathy and sensual and beautiful.

“Right here.”

And with that he melted into her and for a moment, everything was forgotten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all those who continue to read! I really appreciate all those who have chosen to invest in my story.
> 
> This one was a long one, and at least initially a little more by the numbers of the original plot. I personally really enjoy the in-game interactions with Mother Giselle, as further thematic exploration of faith and doubt. Please feel free to challenge me, give opinions, feedback on how you think it was conveyed.
> 
> In regards to Cullen, this was one was the opposite of by the book. But indeed, as has been mentioned in previous comments, I am attempting to deviate slightly from the typical hero narrative that has formed around him, adding a little more depth to his struggle and hardship with lyrium and his own view of himself. Lysette is an NPC who I always found interesting in the game, never fully understanding why she was in Haven for the events of Inquisition, so I wanted to flesh her out more, have her interact and help develop the Templar experience, specifically in relation to Cullen. 
> 
> Again all feedback and comments are welcome, I really appreciate all contributions.


	11. The Bite that Binds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the world around them crumbles, the Herald and the Apostate find themselves at odds.

“The wolves?”

“The wolves.”

“And you’re certain?”

“Quite certain, yes. A demon, big as you like. Up there living in the caves through the canyon.”

Lark watched Master Dennet’s wife, Elaina work as she spoke, her hands caked in soil as she rooted around her garden pulling up sprigs of herbs. She was an older woman, her dark hair flecked with a shimmer of grey and her features dark and thick and hardened from a lifetime of working and tending an unforgiving land under an unforgiving sun. She smelt of the land too, of freshly upturned earth and freshly lain dew and the sweet tang of cut grasses mixed with the scent of sweat that shone across her golden skin. It was a smell Lark knew well. It smelt of the woods and the forest floor she had once called home.

It was welcome in the wake of the violence they had faced, the remnants of a world she knew that had not yet crumbled.

“Clear out the demon and the roads and our farmers should be safe again.” It took a great deal of exertion for her to pull herself to her feet as she spoke, her breath heavy and her eyes narrowed with the strain to her old body, before wiping her mud-stained hands on her overalls.

“I damn hope so,” Varric muttered bitterly under his breath. Lark couldn’t help but agree. While the Seeker had remained behind with Vale and Harding to determine how best to assault Fort Connor, Lark along with the ever merry, terrible twosome had proceeded north west to seek out the Horse Master and discover the reasoning for his stark silence.

And they had certainly found it. A huge pack of great, hulking beasts stalked the roads, black wolves the size of bears whose piercing, deafening howls filled the blue twilight of the hillside with their pained din. It had taken a concerted effort to drive them off with a lashing of Solas’ fire and a whip of Lark’s lightning, though not before one had taken them by surprise and almost clamped its fanged, mangled jaws around Varric’s forearm. He still nursed it now, blood seeping through the tightly wound bandage as he muttered various, novel and colourful expletives under his breath much to Solas’ evident chagrin and Lark’s distinct delight.

“We’ll attend to it now, ma’am. We should return with word of our success tomorrow evening.”

The old woman nodded though her wrinkled brow had creased more as if pondering a conundrum. “And if there is no word of your success?”

“Then we will most likely be dead, so we’ll all have a bigger predicament to occupy ourselves with I should imagine,” Solas interjected, his tone dripping in a sarcasm Lark had imagined the man to be incapable of. Like the child she thought she was, she felt her mouth drop open dumbly, with a surprising jolt. Varric simply burst into a bellowing guffaw, before wincing slightly at the strain it put on his arm.

“Don’t mind Chuckles, ma’am. He’s something of a jokester,” Varric laughed. Solas only pursed his lips and turned away.

Elaina, clearly unsure of what to make of the three of them, simply nodded to the Herald and retreated to the safety of her home. The moment the door closed behind her, Lark whipped round to face the older elf’s retreating form.

“What was _that_?” she asked, making a move to follow him through the winding farmland.

“I only answered her question honestly, Herald.”

“Yes, but with the tone of an impudent ten-year-old?”

“I would hardly call my response like that of a child’s.” He walked fast enough that Lark and Varric had to hasten to match his pace. “I was merely answering an obvious question with an obvious answer. Surely, I did nothing to insult the woman?”

“I think the bigger issue is we didn’t think you’d ever crack a joke, Chuckles,” Varric replied, grimacing as he reached to make sure ‘Bianca’ was fastened securely to his back. “Excuse us if we were a little taken aback.” Lark smiled at the sight of Solas’ face going slightly red, whether with anger or humility she was unsure though knowing what she did of the man, she supposed it was less likely to be the latter.

“I am not incapable of humour, child of the stone.”

“I never said that Chuckles…”

“Perhaps it is simply that my humour is of too sophisticated for you to fully grasp.”

Varric’s face turned a faint purplish hue as he feigned horror at the mage’s words, “You wound me, Chuckles.”

“Is it impossible for you two not to bicker or…?” Lark interjected, feeling the tips of her ears warm with her laughter. A pleasant feeling, one she had almost forgotten.

“I wouldn’t ask me, kid. According to our dear Solas here, my mind is too dull to understand the subtle grace of humour and conversational cues.”

Despite her best attempt to stifle it, Lark felt herself burst out laughing, her shoulders wracked and her body light. “How did I get stuck with you two?”

“Even the holy have to be punished sometimes. Andraste got burnt at the stake, so I guess you could call us your pyre,” Varric chuckled.

“So, it would seem,” Solas muttered sullenly, his lips pursed in his familiar, disdainful fashion as he narrowed his eyes at the dwarf. Lark thought he looked younger then, the wilfulness of a young man reflected in the darkness of his frown and the arch of his broad shoulders as he folded his hands neatly behind his back. For a second, she thought she caught his eye in a momentary flutter, his gaze surprisingly mournful.

“Well,” Lark sighed, her gaze flitting away, “At least hers was a quick death.”

 

…

 

As she stood between the sharp, sloping sides of the canyon, Lark gazed up at the sun-speckled red sandstone, inlaid with the coarse vines of gently woven ivy. Shadows danced between the slim, rustling leaves as the wind blew as if casual in its disturbance, like a whisper of breath across the blushing rockface. Standing amongst the still quiet, only disturbed by the light tinkle of the running stream to the south, Lark wondered when anyone had last walked this path, what feet had last stood where she stood now, what boots had crunched across the leaf-strewn earth and tasted the encroaching winter chill. The air began to grow cooler as she stood there, as if the wind had gathered around her to grow urgent in its embrace, a chill seeping through her spine at its light, lingering touch.

“Herald?” Lark turned to find Solas at her side, yet there was something different about him. His sharp features had eased, as if softened by the air’s cool kiss. “Do you feel it?”

“Feel what? The wind?”

“The veil,” he whispered, gesturing to the air around them. “It is thin here. You can feel it, can’t you?” His gaze was expectant, his dark eyes brightening as they swept over their surroundings. “Spirits clamouring at your side?”

_Not wind. Spirits._ The thought paralysed her for a brief moment, the thought of pale, cool hands clutching her limbs and trailing her cloak’s tail. Breath lingering on her bare skin, exposed to the elements and their ghostly touch. It hung in the air between the two of them. Words unspoken yet lingering like an echo of a forgotten prayer or long-lost lullaby.

She had glimpsed the world beyond the veil in dreams, snatches of memory of long-forgotten lives suspended between her waking hours. The ripple of magic dusted in the haze of dreams, pale faced and pale eyed spirits watching from every corner of the Fade as she found herself raptured in her wanderings. It was different here, knowing they could feel her, that they walked beside them. Out in the open, exposed. For a moment, she was glad to feel Solas close at her back, for a second almost tempted to reach out to take his arms in hers, desperate for the familiar feeling of flesh and blood beneath her fingertips.

“Why here?” Lark asked, her words slow and trance-like as if they were suspended around her in the echoing quiet. “I would’ve thought only wolves walked these trails.”

“No doubt the Breach has caused the veil to weaken and rupture all across the countryside. The rifts prove the most violent tears but perhaps it has had more subtle effects, like here. Perhaps that is why the demon that now terrorises the Horsemaster’s farmland was able to slip through.” For a moment, as she reached out her hand, Lark felt something beneath her fingers. The roughness of the hewn linen of Solas’ tunic…or something else, someone else. She dropped her hand, unsure if she wanted to know the truth.

“Perfect…” Varric interjected gruffly, coming up to stand at Lark’s side, his hand resting securely on ‘Bianca.’ Lark noticed that the dwarf looked uneasy, a slight quake to his limbs as he planted himself beside her. “So, where is this demon then? I thought Elaina said…’”

The change was sudden and as sharp as a knife’s edge. The air around them thickened, the cold closing around their limbs as it reached to constrict their throat and fingers, choking them.

“Demon.”

As if in response, a shrill shriek rose up around them followed by a cacophony of pained, piercing howls from the deepening black of the cavern up ahead.

“Well, shit.” Lark couldn’t help but agree with Varric’s sentiment.

“Your lead, Herald,” Solas whispered.

“So, it would seem,” Lark replied bitterly, taking a hesitant step into the unfolding dark.

 

…

 

Skeletal and seething at the mouth, the demon loomed out of the shadow like a fiend from the depths of an infinite darkness. Little more than teeth and a jangle of sharp bones and tendons tied together by sickly-pale, torn, translucent flesh, it was flanked by the full might of its ravenous, wolfen thralls. There eyes gleamed like polished jet, discoloured in their hunger as they crawled out from their depths of their little abyss. The creature extended a gnarled, contorted claw towards them and let out a shriek like a death rattle.

As he considered the creature, Solas wondered for a moment what the demon had once been, what nature had been contorted and so vilely corrupted to reveal the abomination that stood before them. How it must have felt to be ripped apart from the inside, feeling it’s will disintegrate so violently as to shatter like glass. To lose itself so completely. To be so completely and utterly doomed. As he looked up into its sullen, dead eyes, Solas knew he hoped never to know it.

It took him a moment to realise that the Herald had pressed forward on her own, her sword at the demon’s gullet in an instant in a flurry of fury. Even in the darkness, her hair glimmered like fire as she hacked and slashed forward, practically aflame herself as she darted between the shadows.

Before he could consider her further, Solas felt the heat of the beasts upon him. Great hulking masses of matted fur and rage lunging at him, claws extended like rapiers and their fangs gnashing. He felt the flame in him then, the flame coursing through his salted veins before bursting from his fingertips – driving the beasts back. Within a moment, it was if he stood at the heart of a furnace, a wall of fire extending from every bare inch of skin.

It had been so long since he’d last called it to his side, felt the elements gather at his urging, felt the earth move at his slight whim. To bend the world again, he had missed it so, for so long his manipulations confined only to waking dreams, amblings in the shrouds of the Fade. They were merely animals that fell to his wrath now, but it was enough. Enough for now.

A sickly crunch sent him reeling from his thoughts, turning to see a bolt protruding from the demon’s skull while the young Herald plunged her blade into its throat. The demon screeched violently, its pained din echoing harshly in the deepening shadow before crumbling into dust like the others of its kind they had faced. The wolves changed then, those left alive bounding past them as they fled into the dark, freed from the creature’s tyranny. A howl rose between them, louder and practically buoyant in its sound.

“It would seem the wolves are grateful for our intervention on their part,” Solas remarked, leaning on his staff. He watched the Herald as she sheathed her blade, her shoulders slightly slumped from the exertion. Some of her hair had tumbled from its unruly braid, spilling across the dark leather of her travel cloak.

“Well, I’d rather not stick around to see how they express that gratitude,” Varric replied sullenly. “They’re still wild even without being enslaved by a demon.”

“What’s that sound?”

Solas could not hear anything for a moment. But then it was clear. A small sound, a subtle whine emanating from one of the darker corners.

“I don’t hear anything,” Varric said.

“I wonder why…” Solas muttered under his breath.

“What was that, Chuckles?”

“Nothing worthy note. Just perhaps a meeting with Adan is order for you, Child of the…”

“Be quiet!” Lark hissed, lowering herself into a crouch and pricking her ear to better listen. Solas and Varric fell silent in an instant, Varric looking uncharacteristically sheepish.

The whine grew louder in the gathering darkness, a light whimper, like a child’s first cry. _No, not a child_ , Solas thought, _an animal_.

“Here.” Lark darted into the shadows only to emerge with a huge, childlike grin across her face and a small black bundle in her arms. A _squirming_ black bundle.

“Is that what I think it is?” Varric asked, his brow raised high.

“It’s a pup,” Lark replied brightly, “A runt too by his look.” As Solas watched her cradle the animal, she looked more her age, younger even. Her youth shone from her in the glow of her bright smile and wide eyes. The face of a child waking early on their Nameday or seeing the morning snows at Satinalia. The wolf pup lapped at her fingers, eagerly taking the dried meat she pulled from her pack, its large eye looking up at her with what the elf could only describe as new-found affection.

“It likes you, kid.”

“Yes, I am sure the Herald will cut an imposing figure to her enemies with such a fearsome beast at her side,” Solas replied, watching the pup wriggle in her grasp.

“We were all pups once, Chuckles,” Varric retorted, a grin across his stubbled face, “Though given that was so very long ago for you, I understand the misgivings.”

“Your understanding…”

“It’s troubling to know that maturity is not a given with aging,” the Herald interjected, her gaze slightly darkened. “Based on the two of you, it seems to only guarantee a greater proclivity for bickering.” Her gaze was pointed, a knowingness, a weariness to it Solas found familiar. The child had gone in but a single, fleeting moment. She was aflame once more.

“My apologies, Herald. I did not intend to be rude.”

“Me neither, kid,” Varric said, his grin dimmed slightly.

“Besides, I think both Fen and I would appreciate a more interesting bout of verbal sparring if you must argue.”

“So, you’ve named him already?” Varric asked.

“Well, if he is too small to incite dread in men’s hearts then his name will have to do it instead. At least until he’s grown.”

“And Fen is the name to do that?”

“Fen’Harel is.”

Solas felt his limbs grow cold, as if he had been plunged into ice water. For a moment he felt like he was in freefall, tumbling through empty air into an expanding abyss. His insides twisted, his mouth going dry. The name lingered there, open in the void between them. The words, the mantle so casually uttered, startled him. How long since he had heard it spoken aloud? Not for many ages when it had been draped so coolly across a particular set of unassuming shoulders.

“You use the Dread Wolf’s name as if ignorant of the mantle?” Solas managed, his throat tight in an instant, “Surely your people would disapprove of such a blasphemous notion?”

Lark’s gaze darkened, the child utterly destroyed in a single glare. Destroyed in the fire of her amber eyes. “It’s not ignorance that drives my choice, I would have hoped you’d think better of me than to insult my intelligence, _Solas_.” She said his name as if it left a bitter taste in her mouth, almost spitting it.

As he watched her, Solas felt as though the ground had shifted beneath him, threatening to swallow him whole. “I only meant…”

“Barbarity is a common insult towards _my people_ , I would hate to think you are ignorant of your lack of novelty.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Varric’s gaze flit rapidly between the two of them, his gaze dark and wide.

“Herald, I am truly…”

“My choices are my own. I do not hold such reverence for the traditions of the Dalish, I certainly do not fear a mere name as you do. _Dirthara-ma_.”

The clear cut of her elven struck him like a blow to the head, the familiar curse loose in the air around them, tainting it. How long since he’d heard it so venomously spoken? A long, long time, that much was certain.

“I am deeply sorry for my careless words, Herald. I did not intend to demean or insult.”

“Another trait that comes naturally, then?”

For a moment, he was standing in the clearing outside Haven again, feeling the weight of her fury upon him as she stared him down, her words filled with the same ferocity as they did now. Except this was a different type of fire he had used against her, a kind that burnt more harshly and scarred more deeply.

“We should head back to camp before it gets dark, Herald,” the dwarf insisted, his interjection for once welcome to the older elf. “It’s impossible to cross the canyon after nightfall. If it helps, you can continue to insult Chuckles once we’re there?”

The flame in her eye dissipated almost as quickly as it had come, her eyes darkening as she considered the dwarf’s words. The pup in her arms nuzzled its snout into her open palm as she stood there, considering him.

“We should make haste then. I would hate to give Solas more reason to denounce my judgement.” She brushed past him without so much as a second glance, Varric close on her heel.

“The pup in her arms isn’t the wolf you should be concerned with, Chuckles,” he muttered to the elf, before following the young Herald out towards the cavern’s mouth.

“So, it would seem,” Solas muttered quietly, resigning himself to a solemn silence.

 

…

 

_How dare he?_

Lark lay beneath the sloped canopy of her tent, staring into the gaping shadow above her as she considered the older elf’s words, sure if she grimaced anymore intensely she would set the cloth alight.

His words were not unprecedented; indeed, she was surprised that they had not emerged from his mouth sooner. Lark knew the whispered slurs well, knew the old wife’s tales that the shems and city elves whispered in the pale candlelight late at night. Bedside tales of the Dalish heathens who roamed the forests like animals, barbaric in their primitive lives. Demons that stole children from their beds, carried off women into the night and sacrificed their own kin to sate the bloodlust of their false gods.

It was different it from the mouth of the apostate, the knowing hint of condescension in his usually calming voice as he uttered the words. Standing there, in the face of his denouncement, she had felt like a child again, small and skinny, staring into her clan’s sombre faces as they dripped with disdain. Looking up into the disapproving eyes of her grandmother as she snatched her by the ear. She could almost feel it, like the trace of a phantom hand at her head where an old blow had once been struck.

She felt exhaustion cling to her like sweat as she lay there, determined in its attempt to drag her into a fitful slumber. It was only the reassuring warmth of the pup in her arms that kept her anchored there, awake and secure.

Lark looked down at the wolf’s sleeping form, so little it fit snugly into her forearm, nuzzling into its crook. Its brilliant green eyes had practically shone in the darkness when she had spotted him tucked fearfully into an alcove of the cavern’s rockface. The little thing had looked so lonely, so hungry, so terrified she had scooped him up without a second thought. As he has stared up at her, she was reminded so strongly of Baewen, the glimmer of his gaze, the surety of his warmth. But strong in his little cries, fighting to be heard even in the face of the gathering darkness. A fierceness to him only a wolf could have, one deserving of a powerful name.

She had not thought Solas to be one to fear the wrath of the gods. She was almost disappointed by the thought. He had spoken so beautifully of the Fade, of his knowledge of the lives beyond the waking world. Yet he stumbled like any other, hands extended to guide his unseeing eye.

As she felt sleep overcome her with its clawing grasp, all she could think of was his eyes, dark and discerning and destructive in its glance as her mind dissipated into darkness.

And for a last moment, caught between the arms of the world and her dreamlike lover, his eyes disappeared only to reveal a dream of demons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all those reading this, I appreciate every single one of you. Again, any feedback or thoughts are welcome.


	12. An Instrument of Darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As demons and night terrors stalk her mind, the Herald finds herself in a moment of vulnerability.

The little elf dreamt that she stood upon the mountainside once more, enraptured in the epic, storming, blank tundra of the Frostbacks’ snowy peaks. The wind and snows howled and ripped around her like a cracking whip, sharp and wild as it enfolded her in darkness. The cold was all-consuming, seeping through her blood and bones like a curse, sending her veins afire with pain and scraping like nails across the soft skin of her exposed limbs. When she tried to call out, to scream for help, her voice was swallowed by the sonorous bellow of the howling gale. She rasped and cried and screamed to no avail, only to be drowned out by the elemental din.

            Only when she thought all hope was lost, when she thought she would die alone in this eternal shadow upon the mountainside, did a figure emerge from the darkness, their face obscured by a heavy hooded cloak and a veil of shadow. The figure leaned heavily on their staff, their pace agonisingly sluggish in their approach through the heavy snowfall.

            “ _Lark…_ ” It took Lark a moment to realise the voice reverberated inside her mind rather than out loud. It was so quiet as to be barely intelligible, little more than a flutter of a butterfly’s wing in a storm. But as it grew louder, Lark thought she recognised it. The distinctly feminine tone, the hint of gravel running through it, a familiar low lilt. “ _Lark…_ ” And when the figure threw back their hood, the young elf’s fears were confirmed.

            The face of her grandmother, Keeper Deshanna, stared back at her through the roaring snows but she did not look as Lark knew her in life. Her features were contorted, her face still dark and wrinkled and furrowed as she had always known it to be but her eyes were black and glassy like polished jet, like the eyes of the wolves in the demon’s cave, ravenous and terrible. But it was more than that, her face was deformed, her jaw unhinged and fanged, her cheeks hollowed, her brow skeletal. Claws protruded from her slim, wrinkled fingers, her bones rattled and her skin grew pale and sickly, practically dissolving into the surrounding winds as she shambled towards her.

            Lark tried to run, to flee into the shrouded depths of the surrounding storm, but her legs gave out beneath her and she collapsed in the snow, her limbs scrambling and blue with cold and fear. The creature that was her grandmother was upon her in an instant, the staff and the chains of age cast off in a flurry of snow and seething rage. The beast loomed over her, extending out its jagged claws until it pierced the skin of her throat, gently skimming the line of her jugular in a single swipe. The pain was excruciating and scalding and absurd in the heat and terror of it as she felt blood seep from the wound, the heat of it burning her neck.

            And as the creature opened its wide, mangled jaws to clamp down onto her chest, the little elf heard the creature hiss, “ _Goodnight, little girl._ ”

            And in an instant, Larkin Lavellan awoke screaming.

 

…

 

When they had arrived back at camp after their defeat of the demon, Solas had immediately volunteered to take first watch, practically elbowing one of the young recruits out of the way to make up for his evident indiscretion at the caves. He now sat atop a jutting rock outcrop at the river bank, his eyes cast out towards the dim lantern light of the Horsemaster’s farmland to the west, marvelling at his own foolishness.

            How could he have been so stupid, so imbecilic as to insult the girl so contemptuously? He had seen in her eyes the moment he had opened his mouth, had seen the fire in her swallow his reproach like fuel, had been seen the inferno of her fury rise to strike out in an instant. It wasn’t like him to be so dumbstruck by a mere name, a name he knew so well. He wondered if had been simply the mere shock of hearing it aloud after so many years or was it the memories resurfacing, old ghosts of lost friends coming back to haunt him? How long since he’d felt the mantle draped across his shoulders, thick and weighted heavily with a hundred lifetimes’ worth of regret.

            Solas worried the carved wood of his staff, tracing his calloused fingertips across the intricately carved aspen, worrying at it. _And to lose her faith so quickly, so naively_? He knew that his grasp was slipping on the world around him, fate weaving its own path despite his better judgement. He could not afford to lose himself now, lose his head, lose her. His presence here, his chance to make amends for his own folly was determined by her good will. Her power was greater than she knew, that much was certain. A power to change the world beyond a divine’s will. Beyond a deity’s.

            It was then he heard the scream. Shrill and piercing in the night air, reverberating across the darkness like a wave tumbling across the surface of a lake. Violent and growing. He on his feet in an instant, his staff bared toward the direction of the scream, the direction of camp he realised. Solas sprinted towards the sound of imminent danger, cursing his failure to sense the disturbance.

            He tore into the centre of camp in an instant, to a scene he had not expected. Several of the young recruits, evidently bedraggled and unwillingly ripped from the comfort of their bedrolls were gathered at the hearth, surrounding a dark figure who appeared to write in pain across the camp’s earth. It took a moment for Solas to realise it was the Herald, writhing and panting and gasping for air, as if she was drowning on dry land, blood seeping fast from a shallow gash across her throat.

            “Chuckles, a little help here please!” Varric’s gruff bark quaked in the face of such a sight. He was knelt beside and attempting to slow her violent spasms but failing easily. The young elf rocked from side to side, her body contorting, as if she tried to escape her own skin. Little sound escaped her lips now in the wake of her scream, only a muted, unintelligible mumbling. The recruits stood awestruck, practically aghast in the face of the display, their shock rendering them only able to watch the violence of the Herald’s terror.

            “Move.” The recruits responded to Solas’ order without question, their faces paling by the second. It was only Mathilde that had moved to help, the young women the only one of them not struck dumb by the sight. She crouched beside Varric but was similarly unable to hold her still under the onslaught. It was as though a great force had possessed the girl, imbibing a strength they could not match, like the girl had been rendered a marionette to the will of some devilish fiend in the trees above them, who pulled at her strings in amusement. It had left the dwarf and the recruit’s faces red with the effort of the exertion.

            As Solas fell to his knees in the dust beside her, he reached out and with a determined fist gripped her chin to try and get a look at her eyes. He only managed to hold her there for a second, but what he saw confirmed his suspicions. Her amber eyes had turned pale with fright, the amber dissipated into a fog that the older elf knew well. It was the blank gaze of someone struck by terror in the Fade, whose soul was falling into the clutches of a malignant entity. It was the gaze that the shems’ Templars took as the sign to violently cut short a young mage’s Harrowing in their so-called Circles. Solas knew he had little time.

            “What is happening, Solas?!”

            “Not something that I can explain now. But please, hold her still as best you can. I know something that will stop this.”

            “Lucas, Marta, here now!” Mathilde’s call to her comrades was met only by horrified stares. One of the younger boys even backed off as if preparing to flee, he’s features white with fright.

            “It looks like it’s just us.” The dwarf looked older suddenly as he uttered those words, his brow darkening and lines deepening in his face. Mathilde said nothing, only renewed her efforts as best she could, her muscles taut with the pressure of it. The force of the Herald’s movements was enough to bruise, the two of them grunting each time she tore and scraped at their skin. Dust rose in the hot air around them, clawing and suffocating, as they dug their heels into the ground from the effort of it.

            Solas held himself steady in the face of it as best he could, his eyes closed and arm extended above her writhing form. The magic he knew was old, a long-forgotten incantation, one perhaps elsewhere lost to time.

But not for him.

The spell was simple but the old, elven magic still had that spark of resistance at his touch, like the din of heated metal set before the imminent force of a blacksmith’s hammer. It was not like the spells the Circle Mages sang, those that came at any shem’s slight whim, this was a magic that lived in the world around them, that submitted to only the strongest calls. There was a familiarity to it that Solas lamented the absence of in the waking world, an aching in the words and the feel of it across his lips. As if those who had once spoken it so often called out to him from the darkness, echoing and adding to his might. Those he had known in life. And in death.

            “ _Halani ash o’banal.”_ He knew the words. “Lead her from darkness”. A dim golden light emanated from his outstretched palms and cast out across her writhing form like a gleam of sunlight in the darkness. Its warmth was welcome, like the warmth of a late homecoming or a midsummer day. Out of the corner of his eye, Solas thought he saw the dwarf’s eyes widen with wonder as he watched the light dance across the Herald’s skin and dissolve into the exposed flesh. For a split second, nothing changed.

            “Are you sure that…?” Varric managed gruffly.

            Before he could continue, Lark bolted upright with a violent rasping gasp, her cry as sharp and melancholy as a death rattle. Varric and Mathilde sprawled backwards from the shock of it, collapsing in the dirt panting while Lark was racked with shaking. Solas only uttered a small sigh of relief, his grip tight on her shoulder in his attempt to steady her.

            “Herald?” His voice was small as he watched her take in her surroundings. Her eyes were still wide but had returned to their familiar amber, if a little dim with fatigue and fear. Her limbs were clammy to the touch and rapidly bruising.

“What the…?” Before she could continue, she let out a sharp cry of pain and her hand immediately jumped to the gash at her throat.

“Just a moment, Herald. The pain is only temporary.” The young Herald remained silent in her pain as Solas muttered a simple healing spell under his breath. “You will be fine in but a moment.”

As Solas muttered, the dwarf pulled himself upright, his limbs caked in earth and dust and his face a furious red from the effort of it all. His eyes however were filled with only concern, and a slim tinge of fear. “You alright, kid?” he asked hesitantly, his words small. The girl managed a small nod, but her jaw constricted with the strain of it.

“Just a moment, child of the stone.” For a moment, the dwarf appeared to have forgotten the heated insult of the nickname, instead busying himself with other tasks.

“Right.” He pulled himself slowly to his feet, dusting off the worse of the dirt on his coat tails. “We’re going to need three of you on watch now. No telling what heard that so better to keep an eye out. Lucas, Marta and you…uh, the lad with the ginger hair? Make yourselves useful. The rest of you, get back to your beds. It’ll be a harsh morning for you.” The pale-faced youths retreated solemnly, some taking a few seconds to process the gravity of his words before ambling off to the promise of what would surely be a restless night.

Solas heard little of the exchange, his focus attentively on the Herald’s wound. It healed slowly but surely, expending only a little energy in doing so. The wound itself was shallow and, from what the elf could tell of the angle of it, clearly self-inflicted.

“What happened to her, Chuckles? What did this?” The dwarf was clearly afraid, only hesitantly returning to his side. Solas wondered for a moment how many mages the dwarf had encountered, how many young mages had he met in his lifetime, those at an age so easily capable of this destruction?

“A nightmare, one corrupted by something particularly malignant. Strong enough to render dream a very _painful_ reality.”

“Was it a…possession? Like what the Circles say…? Was she…?” Mathilde’s voice was quiet, sheepish even in her questioning, but clearly struck by fear. Her dark eyes were wide with it, taking a clear step back from the Herald at her feet.

“No. Not per se. But it was a very, _very_ powerful nightmare.” Solas words were slow, hesitant. Looking at the young recruit’s wide gaze, he was wary of revealing too much to her but also wary of revealing too little. Leaving the theories of the Herald’s predicament to their wild imaginations could be as detrimental as telling them the truth. “It is nothing to worry about now, it has passed.” Mathilde’s gaze seemed to be softened by this explanation and she stopped drawing further away but when he caught the eye of the dwarf, he realised he was not as easily as convinced. The Herald only remained silent.

“Why don’t you get some sleep, Mathilde? You did well tonight, you deserve some rest after this.” Varric’s suggestion was a wise one, Solas thought, removing unknowing ears from what would certainly be a difficult conversation to come.

“Yes…yes. I think I will. Get some…rest.” Mathilde’s words were slurred a little by the rapidly descending fatigue, and Varric’s suggestions was more than enough of the prompt she needed. Casting one last glance at the Herald’s suddenly very small frame, she retreated to the sanctuary of her tent. In a moment she was breathing heavily in what Solas hoped to be a deep sleep.

Varric immediately turned to the young elf. “Maker, kid. Are you doing alright? Cause I’m not going to lie to you, that was some terrifying shit.” His words were as solemn as the Herald’s sullen expression. With her throat almost completely healed, though even his magic could not prevent the rapidly developing scar, the Herald brought her knees up to her chin and hugged them to her in what Solas thought to be a defensive stance. One he often saw children do.

“I-I dreamt of…”

“You do not have to describe it.” Solas’ words were short. “Describing it can give what sought to harm you power.”

The dwarf’s face paled. “What harm? What are you talking…?”

“Thank you, Solas.” The Herald’s voice was small and quaking, but Solas saw a strength in her gaze as it met his. “I don’t know what would have happened without…”

“There is no need to thank me. It is the least I can do.” The girl managed a small smile in return, the shakes slowly dissipating from her shoulders.

It was the dwarf who interjected, “I still don’t get what I we just saw. If it wasn’t a possession, then…?”

“It was very close to being one.” The Herald responded only with silence to Solas’ solemn words. “Demons of nightmare gravitate towards those who have experienced recent trauma, particularly those who have experienced it _young_.” He may have imagined it but he thought a glimpse of the Herald’s jaw tightening at the word. “I imagine whatever made its attempt upon you attempted to seize upon a particularly vulnerable moment.”

“But you said to Mathilde…”

“If you truly think it is wise to inform the recruits of the truth of what they witnessed, be my guest,” Solas replied, doing little to mute the scathing tone of his words. The dwarf remained quiet in response, his face solemn and eyes narrowed.

“I only meant…”

“I know what you meant, child of the stone.”

“Please stop it.” The Herald’s voice was small but stern, an aching in it, of pain, fatigue or something else Solas did not know. Perhaps all of it. “What is happening to me? What do I have to do to stop it?”

“All mages will find themselves facing demons in the Fade at some point in their lives. You were strong to fend it off but it had an evidently strong effect on you. Enough to manipulate you into _physical_ action,” he replied, pointing to the scar at her throat. “It is impossible to protect against fully. Demons of nightmare are especially elusive and cunning in drawing out the terror within their victims but they are defence mechanisms that you can implement.” Solas found himself pausing for a moment, contemplating. “Herald, how long have you experienced nightmares of this intensity? Given the nature of what we saw, this cannot have been the only one?”

“I…”

“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, kid. I know it’s been a long…”

Solas pursed his lips. “I’ll think you’ll find if we are to combat this incident it would be useful to understand the full breadth of issue at hand, child of the stone.” Even in the short weeks he had known, Solas had found the conflict between the dwarf and himself almost instinct. They’re interactions grew increasingly heated by the day, bitterness festering beneath the words. He wasn’t sure exactly what irked him so much about the dwarf, the infantile quirk of his brow with every sly, salacious muttering he made on the road. Perhaps it was the way he stepped between the Herald and him even in idle conversation, inciting discord and impressing upon Solas a feeling of intrusion. He knew it was discord that would only fester with time.

“I’m just trying to help, Chuckles.”

“And failing if this is the advice you offer, dwarf.”

“Perhaps if you yanked that long face of yours out of your arse long enough to…”

“ _Enough_.” Her voice was strained with the effort and exhaustion, but the Herald cast a fearsome glare between them, one that left the dwarf looking sheepish to Solas’ great pleasure. The storm would always break eventually, Solas knew that much, and he enjoyed that it had broken to his own advantage.

“I’m sorry, kid. I’m only trying to…”

“I know, Varric.” She paused to reach out her hand to rest it on top of his in a swift but gentle motion. “Thank you for tonight, I’m sorry it happened but appreciate your help. Why don’t you get some sleep too? You deserve it as much as Mathilde.” The light lilt of the Herald’s voice was surprisingly earnest in its cadence, Solas thought. It was not an unpleasant sound he knew, a tenderness to it that he found naturally drew people closer to her as if to listen more intently. He had heard it back in Haven, caught snatches of it between her gulps of mead and bites of Flissa’s cooking in the Singing Maiden’s.

The dwarf seemed to be equally as susceptible to in his quiet reply, “I think I will sleep then.” He pulled himself slowly to his feet with a great huff of effort. “But if you need _anything,_ just give me a shout.” His words were as pointed as his gaze as he glanced bitterly at the older elf, before retreating to his tent.

Solas found the subsequent silence a slightly uneasy one. “If I may Herald, I know it is not often the most pleasant to detail nightmares to others, but knowing how they often they occur might aid in fending them off.”

“I know.” The Herald’s voice had grown harsher, the strain returning in earnest. He wondered if it was a result of the pain or his company. “How much do you need to know?”

“Not details of the demon itself, but details of their frequency. The events, people that take shape within them…”

“They occur almost every night. Every night since the Conclave.” She uttered the statements loudly, her tone solemn, the truth of them visible in the dark shadows beneath her bright eyes and the pained slump of her shoulders. Solas thought to pity her, pity the pain, but having learnt what he had of her in their short time travelling together, he knew she would not want it. Perhaps would never want it. Especially not after today’s events.

“And what do they…?”

“I dream of death.” Her gaze was suddenly alight again as she met his, the amber aflame reflecting the hearth before her. “My own, my clan’s, my…brother’s.”

“I see. I am sorry for your loss, Herald.”

For a moment, the young elf said nothing. “Every night is different, he dies in a different way. It started out as if my mind was searching for a way to understand how could have been taken at the Conclave. But then it began to evolve into… _other_ things.”

 _A recent death then_ , he realised, _one that plagues her_.

“I can’t imagine my life without him in it, I just can’t and my mind hasn’t allowed him to completely disappear, in some gruesome twist of fate.”

“If I may Herald?” Solas asked. He realised that his voice had softened to an uncharacteristically meek intonation. The Herald too seemed surprised, her eyes fixed on his as he drew slightly closer to her side. He had even surprised himself in his own cadence “Though it impossible to entirely rid you of them, there is something that I know that may be able to do fend off the worst of them?” He was close enough now to hear the light rise and fall of her breathing as it slowed from her earlier gasps.

“What does it involve?”

“An old incantation, an elven tradition in fact. One I was taught when I was very young.”

 _Not entirely a lie_ , he thought.

“Will it hurt?” she sounded truly like a child then, her voice small and light and ever so slightly tinged with fear. The kind of question asked by a scared school child looking up into the eyes of an irate schoolmaster, or standing in front of a furious parent after breaking something precious.

“There may be a slight tingle but nothing more, I promise.”

The Herald said nothing, but after a minute of pondering the gravity of his gentle words, she nodded. “What do you need me to do?”

“Nothing for now, just stay still if you can once I’ve begun.”

Without another word, Solas moved to sit directly in front of her, his legs crossed. The Herald mirrored him without prompt, her movements quick if delicate given the pain she was still in. They sat like that for another moment, their silence less uncomfortable now. Solas remained unsure quite to make of it. Of her. As he watched her, her eyes aflame in their curiosity as she stared back, he wondered if eternity could pass within a single moment of looking into those eyes. It was an eternity that certainly stared back at him.

Without speaking, he stretched out his hands and placed three fingertips on each of her temples, before beginning the incantation.

 

…

 

It was not pain that she felt at Solas’ touch, exactly, but Lark knew she sensed something in the light trace of magic that glanced across her skin. She felt his fingertips gently grace her temples in a light, circular motion at first before he began the words of the spell. Out of the corner of her eye, she thought she caught a light glow emanating from his touch.

            _An old spell_ , he had said. Lark was not frightened of old magic. It was the magic of the ancient elves that she wielded in her hand each moment that she stood in the heat of battle. It had defended her well so far. Perhaps then, it was the hands that wielded it now that left her uncertain.

            At first, he muttered the words so quietly Lark could barely make them out but then, as the older elf’s gentle lilt rose in the night air, she began to hear them. After a time, she realised he repeated the same words over and over again in ancient elvish that she could only just interpret.

            _Protect the path of waking dreams._ The words hung in the air between them, heavy from the weight of them. There was a grace to them, an elegance Lark had not previously known.

For a moment she felt nothing. And then, she felt it all at once.

There was a familiarity to the magic she felt lightly grace across her skin, a spark to it that she knew well. The sensation was like sinking into a deep bath of warm water, the heat seeping through her limbs from her fingertips to her toes and pooling in within her heart. She felt her muscles loosen and limbs quiver in response as they were freed from their taut, fearful prison and it was as if a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders as the comfort of it enraptured her.

Yet while her body calmed, her mind brightened. It was like a flash of lightning across her vision, violet and violent like her own, as if it forged a ward between her and the demons she saw in sleep, emanating a pulsing, almost thundering rhythm beneath her flesh. It twisted and danced and laced through her veins, imbuing her with a strength that Lark had thought long-forgotten. She felt power course between her fingertips, like tendrils of smoke and flame in the sky above a roaring fire. The sensation was like nothing she’d ever felt and it grew and bloomed with each cycle of Solas’ words.

            For a moment, she thought she could see the Fade, as if she was caught in the soft embrace of the Veil itself, caught between the world of waking and the world of dreaming.

            And then in a moment, it was gone.

            Her eyes shot open to reveal Solas slowly leaning away from her though his hands lingered at her face for a moment longer. For a second, they stayed motionless, his hands gently cupping the sides of her face in a moment of incredible quiet, the night suspended silently around them with only Lark’s light gasp to break it. And then in an instant, each realising the gravity of the moment, they darted apart, Solas’ hands dropping immediately to his sides and each scrambling to be the first to look away.

            “I am told that the sensation is different for each person that experiences. I have heard be compared to falling from a high cliff and inebriation.”

            Lark shook her head. “I don’t think either of them is the right way of describing how that felt.”

            Solas only nodded. There was silence between them for a moment only interrupted by the crackling of the campfire as it gradually burnt out, neglected. “How does you feel, Herald?”

            “Good, I think. Strangely energised in spite of everything.”

            “The spell will be working then. It should last for a great deal of time if I have performed it correctly.”

            Lark nodded, “Thank you, Solas.”

            “It is no trouble,” he replied, meeting her gaze briefly. Both remained silent for a time, Lark increasingly aware she was unsure how to proceed after the nature of their interaction. She felt strange, like a knot grew in the pit of her stomach. A feeling she hadn’t experienced in at least a year, not since Mahanon.

            “Well, if you are alright, Herald, I think I may take this moment to retire. It is sure to be a long ride tomorrow.”

            “Yes, right. Of course. I’ll see you in the morning, Solas,” Lark replied quietly, her gaze drifting away from him. Solas lightly inclined his head to her, before turning to the promise of a warm bedroll. But before he disappeared behind the veil of his tent, he turned one last time.

            “Good night, Herald. I hope you sleep well.” He paused. “And know, I am very sorry for my hasty words earlier, they were undeserved.”

            “It’s nothing Solas, don’t worry about it,” she replied hesitantly, realising much to her own surprise that the words were true. Solas managed a small smile before disappearing inside his tent.

            Standing alone under an ever so slightly lightening sky, Lark too found herself suddenly overwhelmed with the desire to sleep. She found a small smile crept across her face as she retreated to the newfound sanctuary of her tent and slept what she was eternally grateful to discover to be a dreamless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiatus ends! Hurrah! I've really regretted not getting a chance to write more in the last few months, but uni deadlines and personal turmoil do get in the way of it all. I'm really grateful to anybody out there reading this. I hope you are enjoying it. Again, feedback, commentary, a shoutout is all appreciated and invited!
> 
> Also, Lavellan/Solas beginning to emerge, and really enjoying writing their evolving interactions.
> 
> Many thanks!!


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